Skyrim: Master of Assassins
by Raven Studios
Summary: Leandra Ashlynn was a model citizen, a pillar of her family's business, and unswerving supporter of the Empire. The wrongful death of her sister, however, changed everything. With her world turned inside out, Leandra finds herself walking the path of revenge—even if that means sharing the path with the Stormcloaks. (Cover images (c)Bethesda Softworks. No infringement is intended.)
1. Chapter 1

Author's Opening Notes: Hey all! Firstly, Skyrim isn't mine, it belongs to Bethesda Softworks (as do the images used in the cover art). Secondly, I'd like to thank 16DarkMidnight80 for being so utterly awesome and going over this project. Thirdly, more credit where it's due: "Master of Assassins" is the title Frank Herbert ("Dune" and its various offshoots) used to describe the head of a Great House's covert affairs department. Since I don't think 'covert affairs' is a good phrase given the setting of Skyrim… Master of Assassins it is. So, credit where it's due for the title—but that's where anything Herbert-related stops.

I hope you enjoy this new adventure!

-L-

The cold Hearthfire winds of Solitude bit at my skin, trying to get through my warm wool wraps and cloak.

"Be careful," Lucinda breathed, kissing my cheek as we hugged one another. "It's dangerous out there, just now."

"Very," I answered, returning the gesture. It was like this every time we separated, my twin and I. Fortunately, the anxiety of separation had lessened as we got older and by now the hardest part was simply getting going.

I looked her over, dressed in a copper and yellow gown that brought out the warm undertones in her skin and hair. It was like looking in a sunny mirror—except were her eyes were slate grey, mine were bluer. Still, at a quick glance—especially to someone who didn't know us both—it would be easy to confuse us.

"You have your knife?" she asked, stepping back but keeping hold of one of my hands.

I patted the dagger hanging at my hip. "Sharp and ready."

"And your bow?"

I patted the wagon upon which Laurel (the driver) and her brother Stern (security) sat. "And a full quiver, just in case."

Lucinda nodded, nibbling her lip, her eyes clouding over. With the Rift being more of the Stormcloak persuasion since Ulfric's filthy little rebellion, Lucinda—a worrier by nature—has been getting worse about her loved ones traveling anywhere that isn't solidly Imperialist.

"Don't do that, you'll chew right through it," I chided, teasing the abused flesh away from her teeth. "Goodbye." I hugged her tightly again, then climbed up onto Felix's back. The buckskin snorted, shaking his head, then started off at a good clip when Laurel set the cart of goods in motion.

"Trade well!" Lucinda called.

"I'll bring you something back, even!" I called, twisting around in my saddle.

As I would have done for her, she waited until I was out of sight before going inside to get on with her day.

The winds tugged at my hair as I pulled my hood up, then tugged at my hood as my small trading party headed out of Solitude, away from the Box of Wonders. This month's trip would take me from Solitude, to Whiterun via Morthal, to Riften, then back to Whiterun, to Dawnstar, then home again.

Lucinda will take the next trip, and I'll be the one who fusses. Personality wise, she's a little less confident in the face of uncertainty… at least until she warms up to the idea. Then she's fine.

This trip is a little long in that we don't normally do much trade in Riften, at least we haven't since the Civil War broke out. Riften's leader is devoutly pro-Stormcloak (the city's politics, though, go where Maven Black-Briar tells them to). However, trade is trade, the city is as crooked as anything imaginable, and Madame Black-Briar would overlook a murder if she was paid enough. Overlooking a trader out of Solitude—most likely a Legion supporter which is, in fact, the case—is a matter of eight yards of fine velvet and a pair of ruby earrings that date back to the middle of the Third Era.

Also by not imitating the Stormcloaks and screaming about one's politics at the top of one's lungs.

My family dabbles in a number of things, as far as what we sell. The hope, right now, is to acquire on paper the Radiant Raiment. That's _my_ pet project. I'm not fond of the proprietresses and hard times hit everyone, so the terms of the original proposal were incredibly fair. My father is rather idealistic for a trader: a measure of fairness in all dealings. The elves could have kept their shop _and_ a generous portion of the profits.

The acquisition was more in line with an unspoken challenge; it would extend our family's reach in the mercantile world and prove that I am truly my father's daughter, a gifted merchant, a problem solver, and that my two-year stint with Supply in the Imperial Army all those years ago was not wasted. So far it hasn't been, but I would see getting Radiant Raiment on paper as conformation of my own skill.

Who doesn't like to prove herself to herself?

But no; they aren't interested 'on any condition, now leave before I _evict_ you.' So now I have to tie and tighten the noose. I found the negative reaction rather strange: they were reliant on my family for their more exotic cloths, trims, and trinkets—which is where they do their best if not steadiest business—and benefitted greatly from the good word of Lucinda, Father, and myself outside Solitude.

Mother refuses to wear anything not made by Taarie or Endarie, and isn't shy about praising her seamstresses and making sure people know where to go.

Regardless of my family's support—and, strangely enough, after this unpleasant exchange (and several weeks later they were even nastier to Lucinda)—price of their more exotic cloths, trims, and trinkets started to rise.

It's the war, you know: Stormcloaks crawling all over the eastern half of the province, ambushing anything that moves.

It's risky business.

Surely they understand.

So sorry.

However, businesses _close_ to us receive items closer to 'at cost' than businesses we simply do business with.

Hint-hint.

It's not a short-term goal. If there's one thing Mother instilled in me it's patience. Now, I hate chess. I think it's boring to sit around scraping pieces over a board with such set rules. However, it does teach patience and strategy—which has worked for me off the board. So I play, despite hating it, that I might learn from it.

Never overdevelop any one piece. Never let your opponent's aggression rattle you. Never let an opponent's defensive play rattle you. Never forget the power of a bluff, blind, or strategic loss. If the direct approach doesn't work, have a discreet one already in place—or mask the latter with the former. If an opponent sees what is expected he might not see the unexpected lurking off to the side.

It's like that in a marketplace setting: know who's who, know as much as possible about everyone's commercial business—who's on an up, who's having problems, what would they pay most for, what does the market demand. I keep notes on all these things and track patterns back at home.

Lucinda is the type who can smile someone into buying almost anything she sells.

I can convince almost anyone to sell anything I want to buy at a good rate. There may be an exchange of favors rather than coin, but in the main I can get what I want or whatever someone needs. I wasn't very highly regarded in the military—being in Supply as I was, since it's not as necessary as it was during the War—but I was good at it.

So, on the whole, Lucinda's and my talents complement one another. A perfect combination for a pair of entrepreneurs.

I like Whiterun. I know most of the merchants there, as I do in most of the major Holds, and do a pretty brisk business. There's an iron mine, you see, that Thane Bryling of Solitude owns and it's a rather productive mine—Adrianne and her husband Ulfberth in Whiterun buy a lot of the iron. Bryling mightn't bother with the shipping, since the East Empire Company is in Solitude except that there's a seething tension between two of the major houses in Whiterun. Ulfberth and Adrianne are considered Imperialist by default.

The Grey-Mane clan, headed by Eorlund who works the Skyforge, supports the Stormcloaks (hence why Adrianne is considered 'Imperialist by default'). Now, I know Fralia well, more as a personal friendship than a professional one—she fills the position of 'whop girl' peddling some of Eorlund's more delicate pieces. For a man of his size and who spends so much time making great hoarking swords, his skill with the delicate is quite remarkable. She's such a sweet lady, and not as steeped in politics as some—she's a loyal citizen of Whiterun, whatever else she might feel or think.

She really is a dear. I can't say as much for her lads, whom I know only vaguely. One of her boys ran off to join them not too long back. Broke Fralia's heart to see him go, but she was so proud.

Meanwhile, which is of interest to Bryling who is especially patriotic if a profit can be turned (one of the few traits that prevents her from becoming a second Madame Black-Briar), there is Adrianne, who works under her maiden name, Avenicci. Adrienne is also a smith and not particularly in favor of either faction—Stormcloak or Imperial Legion—but as the only other blacksmith in town, the staunchly Imperialist Battle-Born family does all their business with her. From what I once heard, a Battle-Born 'wouldn't trust Eolrund's steel not to turn when needed most,' which is very ridiculous.

The man takes pride in his steel, as any smith would. And he's got a right to—Lucinda's and my daggers we carry while traveling are both Skyforge steel. I've yet to find anything comparable in form or quality.

Adrianne herself is simply cheerful and pleasant, though I think she'd kill if it would get her an apprenticeship with Eorlund. I have no complaints about Adrianne's work, either. It's a little cheaper, and no less well-made comparing product-to-product… but somehow mundane compared to the art that comes out of the Skyforge.

That said, my family isn't really in the arms business. It might be different if Lucinda and I had been born boys—Father wanted a boy until he had twin girls—but he feels we'd be less of a target if we weren't perpetuating our political views with our cargo.

A trader, if she keeps her politics quiet, can go almost anywhere. I've been to Windhelm before the war—we're boycotting them right now—and found it to be a cold, dirty, nasty little city and I couldn't imagine anything but lack of funds keeping most of the population from just up and leaving.

I'm surprised the Jarl there doesn't realize that the only reason his army is as big as it is is because there are 'lesser folk' to manage the day-to-day affairs: shop keeps, dock workers, domestic servants for households who can't afford 'fashionable' help. If his 'true sons and daughters of Skyrim' had to keep the slack others take up, that would kill his rebellion rather quickly.

The fact that the Legion hasn't crushed him suggests he's a decent general, but I question his ability as an administrator—which is what a Jarl is supposed to be when not picking fights and heedlessly disrupting the Province.

Still… I suppose fighting is part of Skyrim's culture, however much we've advanced since the days where 'might equals right' was so highly fashionable. I should, perhaps, add that as far as 'Nord' and 'Imperial' go, drawing lines that way is utter garbage. My family has been in Skyrim for ages, with Imperials, Bretons, and Nords all along the bloodline. The blood mingles with humans, so the lines being drawn are inaccurate to a nauseating degree.

For instance, if Lucinda wears her hair down or braided in one of the so-called Nord styles, you'd notice her cheekbones and the shape of her jaw—classically Nord. If she brushes her hair out _really_ well and dresses it after the Imperial fashions (which are much prettier than those utilitarian garments common in Skyrim), you notice the shape of her brow and that her cheeks are fuller than it usual for Nords.

The same is true, more or less, for me. It comes in handy, though—I played up the Nord look the last time I was in Windhelm and made an absolute killing. I made contacts, too, though by this point they probably aren't worth much.

Ah, well. There are _nine_ Holds and many respectable settlements. Losing one Hold isn't going to kill business.

-L-

Riften is a bustling, hustling hub of activity, despite lacking Whiterun's strategic position smack in the middle of the Province. The Rift's capital is under the expensive and well-made boot of Maven Black-Briar, who is paid a kind of tithe every time my family wants to operate in her town.

Laila Law-Giver might be the Jarl, but she neither rules in actuality nor lives up to her name. Riften is so corrupt that nothing short of razing it to the ground and salting the earth would purify it (and, even then, having priests of the Eight should all come down, walk the perimeter, doing whatever they need to do to sanctify a place wouldn't go amiss). The only person unaware of this state of existence is Laila herself and I sometimes think it's an act of will rather than pure ignorance and the cleverness of Maven's forked tongue.

That would be a waste, though. So as long as the local pickpockets keep their hands away from my person there is and will be no difficulty.

One of the major exports of Riften is liquor from the Black-Briar Meadery and I had a rather large order for it. Unfortunately, haggling down Madame Black-Briar (or Madame by extension when going through her lackeys as is the common way) is like trying to break apart a mountain with one's bare fists. Her lackeys are terrified of her. Thus, Black-Briar products are always purchased at the original asking price and I don't even bother trying to haggle anymore. There's no point. I have to admire the woman—even her family isn't free of her standards—though personally I find her rather distasteful.

That's alright. As my father says 'trade isn't based on liking. It's based on coin and intelligence.'

Words to live by.

-L-

My lovely friend Aerin was home, but his dear Mjoll (who goes by 'the Lioness' and is a former resident of Solitude) was not.

I met Mjoll the first time I came to Riften alone. Madame Black-Briar's brute of an enforcer—a charming brute of a man by the name of Maul which is, apparently, his real name—was being intimidating and rude. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I ought to take him seriously, ignore him, or consider him a threat to my person and slit his belly open while claiming self-defense.

Fortunately, I didn't have to do any of those things. Mjoll caught wind of the trouble and stomped over—six feet tall, blonde and lovely in the most classically warrior-woman way—and basically told Maul that if he didn't back off she'd knock him from one end of Riften to the other.

I never saw a man that big and that fond of intimidation back down so fast. She didn't even have to raise her voice… and I think she would have had some deep personal satisfaction in turning her threat into reality.

"I really don't know how you manage this," Aerin said, regarding the lovely box of confections I'd so carefully carried from Solitude.

"Confections don't go stale, Aerin," I said, spooning a little honey into my tea. I'm not a great lover of honeyed tea, but it's a local thing and it does go rather well with the confections. "And I hope I find your interest in dear Mjoll just as fresh."

Aerin blushed at the neck, but didn't say anything for a long few moments. "I'm… starting to worry about her, actually."

I set my cup down. "Anything in particular? Can I help?"

Aerin shook his head, then sighed. "I'm starting to worry _a lot_ … she pushes one more limit and Maven Black-Briar will have her thrown in prison—or worse!" He set his teacup down too hard and put his face in his hands, massaging his eyes with the heels.

"She's a crusader, Aerin," I soothed, "and she's not stupid."

He looked up at me. "She called Maven Black-Briar a bitch _to her face_. I didn't sleep for a week—they say Maven's in bed with the Dark Brotherhood!"

"Oh, that is ridiculous," I huffed gently, picking up my teacup. "That rumor's been around so long it would have been proved true if it was. As for Madame Black-Briar, she's too self-aware _not_ to know she's a complete bitch and she's too elitist to care what some common adventuress calls her."

"Unless you catch her on a bad day."

"Madame doesn't have any other kind, Aerin. Half her power is in the fear she's managed to generate. I wouldn't worry quite as much as you are… although if you were anyone else I might needle you about using it as an excuse to keep close while she's sleeping." I winked at him.

It was Aerin's turn to snort, but he looked comforted.

I might have exaggerated about how Madame's long arm isn't as long as rumor suggests. But if it helps him sleep at night…

Mjoll _is_ a crusader, and while she's managed a little bit of improvement, and managed to garner respect and gratitude from the downtrodden masses… well. This is Riften. The corruption isn't going to go away. She'd have better luck trying to clean up Windhelm's nasty attitudes.

"I told her I didn't want her to leave, but…" Aerin sighed, draining his tea and morosely popping a confection into his mouth without tasting it.

"But what you _meant_ was that you didn't want her to stay if it might get her hurt or killed," I concluded.

Aerin nodded.

Aerin saved Mjoll's life, and apparently when he expressed a wish that Riften could be cleaned up a little she took doing just that as a way to repay her life. I understand the mindset, but I do think she's in the wrong place.

"So let me ask you this… if there was somewhere else she could do her crusading…?"

Aerin shook his head. "She'd just tell you she's never been a sell-sword and won't start now. You know how she is."

I nodded. The woman's got a prideful streak a league long. "And I take it she's still failed to notice your interest?"

This time Aerin snorted. "Please don't be gossipy like that with me. I might not mind as much if there was something to gossip about, but as there isn't…"

I let the subject drop. It's clear to anyone with eyes that Aerin is dead gone on Mjoll. He's a nice (if somewhat shy and retiring fellow, and she's this strapping crusader. They're a good match, personality-wise. He'd follow her anywhere, even if he really couldn't manage the situations in which he found himself.

"Well, what will be will be," I said. "And if I hear of any places where she can pack up and move her crusade for justice, I'll let you know."

Aerin, none too hopefully (he's a Riften native and I don't think he'd ever really _want_ to leave), but with an air of gratitude nonetheless.

I tell you what, for his sake and if she'd do it, I'd hire Mjoll for some kind of security role in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, she is who she is and I can't change that.

"So, how are things in Solitude?" Aerin asked briskly, once the silence had time to settle and grow thick.

I didn't have to answer for, at that moment, Mjoll entered looking morose. "Oh, hello Leandra," she nodded.

I smiled at her, partly for her interrupting the urbanities Aerin and I had already gone through but mostly because I like her. "Hello Mjoll."

"Look!" Aerin hiked a happier expression onto his face before turning to face Mjoll, the box of confections in his hand. "Straight from Solitude."

Mjoll, trying not to look too interested—she's got a carefully concealed sweet tooth—peeked into the box. "…is there one of those little raspberry ones?" she asked, trying not to sound interested.

"By some strange coincidence there are three," I answered, picking up the unused teacup and filling it before passing it to her.

Mjoll sat down at the table and, nonchalantly, picked out one of the raspberry crèmes she's so fond of before accepting the cup. Tea really isn't a Skyrim thing, but it's not something that's hard to adopt. Not like the coffees out of Hammerfell; _those_ take a little acclimation!

"So," Mjoll said once she'd nibbled at her sweet, "has Maul been minding his manners?"

-L-

I was coming out of the Benevolence of Mara—Mother doesn't say it, but she's hoping I don't turn out an old maid—when a courier stepped up. Lingering thoughts of prayers for Lucinda and the young man she's making eyes at (she's not ready to commit to wearing the amulet just yet) as well as for Aerin and Mjoll vanished like steam.

Not just any courier but a courier from Solitude. The merchant families of Solitude maintain a small band of couriers that know us and that are known to us—so a message delivered by one is sensitive at best. "Brendan," I manufactured a smile for him.

"Miss Ashlynn. Message from your mother." He presented the envelope with my family's seal in wax on the front and my name in my mother's elegant hand. It would be one thing to get a message from Father, but was something else entirely to get one from Mother.

I opened it and bit my lip as I'd told Lucinda to quit doing before leaving Solitude.

 _Dearest Leandra,_

 _You need to come home, darling. Cut the buying trip short, leave the wagon with Laurel and Stern, they can bring it back without you and Brendan can ride with you. You must absolutely return at once. Oh, darling, I've rewritten this about six times and I still can't make it sound any better. But you're pragmatic, like your father, so here it goes._

 _Lucinda was taken two days prior to my writing this. By all evidences—that is, word of mouth from friends—the Thalmor were behind it. We don't know why; they just… snatched her up. So we want you home. Family should be together at a time like this._

 _Hurry back with all speed. Carry my love with you,_

 _Mother_

I reread the missive, because it didn't make sense.

I read it a third time. It made absolutely no sense.

Lucinda? Taken? But _why_? It makes absolutely no sense. She's a faithful devotee of Zenithar and respects the other seven among the Eight as she ought. There's nothing in her behavior that ought to draw _their_ attention. Nothing.

I swallowed, feeling my eyes prickle. It might be a mistake… but if Mother hasn't heard anything or learned anything in the two days she held off sending this message then…

You hear stories, sometimes, about the Thalmor taking people—usually people accused of breaking the White-Gold Concordat or committing some other high crime. I always thought they were just stories, though—propaganda of the Stormcloaks, their sympathizers and their collaborators.

If there's one thing I hate, it's a collaborator.

"Thank you, Brendan," I swallowed, pleased that I didn't stammer as I wanted to. "Mother says I'm to ride home with you, and that Laurel and Stern are to follow behind."

"Trouble, Miss?" Brendan asked nervously.

That should be patently obvious. "Let me make some arrangements with Laurel. We leave at break of dawn. Take this," I fished out my purse and counted out several coins, "and rent yourself a room at the Bee and Barb. It's too late to start tonight."

Brendan took my avoidance of the question to mean 'very bad news'—that and couriers can't afford to be overly curious. He bowed, took the coins, and set off to do as I told him.

I made the arrangements in a sort of daze, as if I were watching someone else do it, or as though I were one of those Dwemer automatons on a guided track. I didn't cry; I just persisted in a state of shocked detachment. No one commented on anything odd in my behavior. No one mentioned anything amiss in my looks. It was as if my pleasant merchant's face was so practiced in settling into place that I didn't have to think about it anymore.

-L-

Thanks DeadChickenRunning for catching a minor error.


	2. Chapter 2

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for looking this chapter over.

-L-

We, Brendan and I, took the road leading north out of Riften, meaning to cut west across the skirts of Eastmarch and then across Whiterun. We left in the pre-dawn light with no one realizing there was something wrong with me.

I'd spent a bad night. I hadn't slept much; rather, I'd spent the night in a sort of haze, as if I were just a collection of thoughts, a blank sort of space where a body ought to be, listening to the echoes in my mind. Strangely, they were echoes of nothing in particular. I'd never contended with such emptiness.

By the time we were underway, I'd begun to wonder if air felt like I did once a loud bell stops tolling. Just… empty and aware that something big was missing.

We ended up traveling behind a huddled caravan. Their silent weariness suggested they'd been on the road for some time, and their slump in the saddles supported this impression. A merchant who specializes in buying has to know how to read people. Heavy cloaks indicated they would be going further north.

Normally, I would have at least greeted their troupe and made polite conversation. In this case, however, I didn't feel like talking to anyone. Not with the letter in an inner pocket, its bad news burning against my skin.

We'd been on the road and following this other company for some hours when suddenly Brendan was jerked off his horse, an arrow sticking out of him. He hit the ground hard and rolled, the shaft breaking off. He never realized he'd been killed.

Felix shied, his calm utterly shattered by the panic of his fellow equine.

I shouted, the shocked sound sharp among other shouts and yells as I slid off Felix's back before he could throw me—he certainly seemed ready to. I couldn't hold his bridle, and he bolted as I pulled my bow off my shoulder, arrow loose against the string. Bandit raids are common in that they happen often enough to be remarked upon as 'one of those things.'

I'd never been so unfortunate. I fired in the general direction the ambush seemed to be coming from and was rewarded with a shriek of pain.

One of the men in the caravan ahead turned sharply. "Where in Oblivion did you come from?" he demanded, expression round with shock.

My mouth dropped open as realization hit me in a cold, unpleasant moment. I screamed a second later, but not out of realization.

"FUS!"

The sound was deafening and I wasn't even close to it. Screams and shouts followed, as well as a redoubled effort from… the Imperial legion.

Oh no…

"Get down!" the one who had asked where I came from shouted. His gaze was past my shoulder, but the words were obviously for me.

I turned around, ready to drop my weapon and surrender—

-L-

My mind swam lazily, clouded by physical pain coupled with mental and emotional shock. I wasn't sure where I was or what had happened, and had to backtrack through a headache that made me feel like the clapper in the Imperial City's bell tower. Wow.

I didn't know a headache could be so bad. More than being inside my head, the outside of my face hurt, too.

The physical pain, then, came from riding along, minding my own business and suddenly, while following a mounted company, and finding myself caught in an ambuscade of said company.

I squeezed my eyes tighter. My own scream echoed in my mind as Brendan was pulled from his horse by an arrow. I had to wonder what had happened to him. Had he truly been killed? Or, dead, had he been left to rot in a ditch somewhere?

The mental pain came from having been labeled a Stormcloak—I and my family being staunch Imperial supporters as we are. I was assumed to be 'one of them' and was taken with the rest. During the scuffle—what's a woman to do when threatened but fight back?—I must have taken some kind of blow. The pain in my face attested the accuracy of this theory.

The emotional pain came from the letter concealed in my coat's inner pocket: the letter bearing my mother's love and the worst tidings any girl could ever hear: _you sister was kidnapped by the Thalmor._ No reason, just… gone. Maybe I'd had nightmares I didn't remember having, but it made me nauseous to think about my dear twin having fallen into hostile—or, at least, unsympathetic—hands. What's worse, I can't think of a single thing she could have done to warrant their… tender mercies. If she wasn't safe, who is? Part of me keeps hoping I'll hear something that will make this who scenario—Lucinda's, at least—just a mistake: 'Here, have your sister back. She's fine.'

"—think she's coming around!" a voice observed, sounding hopeful. I recognized it, blearily, as the one who'd asked where I'd come from (and warned me to get down, probably to avoid the blow that knocked me out and which left my face in such pain).

"Hnf," a low voice grunted.

"What'd I say about that? Nothing out of you," a sharp voice declared before the grunt finished.

One could almost hear that a nonverbal response would be in the offing… except the owner of the voice gave a muffled dark chuckle.

A second warning to be silent did not follow.

I licked my lips, which were dry and cracked. Swallowing made me aware that my throat was dry, too, and that my stomach felt empty. My mouth felt disgusting, and bad breath of that level made me feel _rancorous_. Or maybe it was just being helpless—I don't do well with feeling helpless and never have. When I feel helpless I _find another way_.

I had to open my eyes, to take stock of my surroundings, to find out what's going on and to discover what's going to happen.

 _Then_ I can work on finding another way.

Waking up fully took effort. Part of me still wanted to fall back, back, back in the dark oblivion of sleep. Unfortunately, I'm too much the pragmatist and if anything bad happens I want to be awake to see it coming.

My neck ached from having hung crooked, drooping against a conveniently placed, fur-covered shoulder. My eyes batted open, watering from the bright sunlight; the light sent fresh lances of pain into my head via my eyes, but I didn't dare shut them again lest I heed that little part of me that wanted the black oblivion to come back.

Black, soothing, unthinking oblivion…

I sat in a rough wagon with five other people: one of them didn't look like he belonged in the wagon any more than I did, being dressed shabbily with a distinctly shifty air about him. Turned to face me, I could see that under their traveling wraps three were Stormcloaks, two men and a woman (she sat on my left). On my right sat the generous shoulder donor. I say 'generous' because he could have easily shunted me to lean all over the woman on my left.

"Tho ur'up." The words—probably 'so, you're up'—were hideously muffled and the result of some effort, as he had to negotiate the gag, and which suggested he hadn't been particularly happy at being my pillow. The gag was sturdy and cinched terribly tight—it was amazing he wasn't gagging and choking on it.

"One more peep out of you and I'll have _them_ Silence you properly," the driver—for that was who had spoken so sharply—snapped. The Imperial seemed a bit too jumpy to be driving a cart with Ulfric, gagged or not, in it. I could only suppose it was courtesy to his rank that they hadn't ' _them_ '—I thought this must mean a Thalmor, given the tone—put a spell to bind his tongue on him.

Ulfric grinned at him as best his gag would let him, golden eyes narrowed in a way that held absolutely no humor. On the contrary, the 'amusement' he evidenced was of the bitterest, blackest, most impotent kind of rage it's possible for a man whose pride has been insulted to maintain.

I whined inwardly. I knew it when I heard that unearthly racket before I was knocked out, but it was another thing to actually see him in person: Ulfric Stormcloak, Bear of Eastmarch, Jarl of Windhelm, instigator of the Stormcloak Rebellion, murderer of High King Torygg, and I'd been sleeping against his shoulder as if we were friends.

How is _that_ for irony?

Ulfric was a large man, with a thick mane of tawny brown hair pulled aggressively back from his face but not in what I'd call a tamed fashion. He certainly didn't look like the monster one would expect, the way people in Solitude talk about him. He had a ridiculously strong jaw, a nose with too much hook for my idea of what constitutes attractive, and high cheekbones. I couldn't tell if his scowl was impressive because it _was_ , or if it was a combination of thick eyebrows, tilted-at-the-corner eyes, and that shadow cast by the overhang of his brow.

Maybe it was both.

I certainly didn't feel comfortable sitting next to him. The gag needed no explanations: he wasn't Shouting anyone to pieces today. I shivered, remembering the way the Shout had pounded for a moment against my eardrums—and I wasn't even in the line of fire.

I always thought of him as a hairy Nord, one step shy of being a complete barbarian (and I being as much a good daughter of Skyrim as any other girl born and bred in the Province). Now, I thought he was just a large, hairy, _scary_ Nord two or three steps shy of being a complete barbarian. I had to thank him for the use of his shoulder somehow, so backing him further away from my idea of 'barbarian' would have to do.

"You're awake. That was a nasty knock to the head you took," one of the Stormcloaks across from me declared. If I wracked my brains—which hurt—I vaguely remember him shouting 'where in Oblivion did you come from?'

He had the classical 'Son of Skyrim' look, heavy fair hair (in his case blonde) braided away from his face and the clearest grey eyes I'd ever seen in my life. His features were narrower and a little less aggressive than Ulfric's, the right cheek ornamented with a nasty graze (it looked as though someone had rubbed his face against the road) with bruising all around it.

"So it would seem," I muttered, glad to find my tongue worked without slurring… though my own breath was so foul in my mouth that I didn't want to talk at all. Ugh.

The Stormcloak across from me opened his mouth to say something when the man on the end—the one who didn't look like he belonged—launched back into a conversation that my awakening seemed to have interrupted.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," he snapped, "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be half way to Hammerfell."

Ah. A horse-thief. Wow. How is this for a bad day? Three Stormcloaks, a horse-thief, Ulfric himself, and a dove in an evergreen tree.

I glanced behind Ulfric, spotted several outriders behind us—including a tall Altmer in slate grey robes.

My mind, still half empty, suddenly snapped back together. My ears seemed to ring and if looks could kill he'd have dropped off that fancy horse of his to lie in the muck. I'd never felt such pure emotion before, though I'd always imagined it would be a completely different emotion if I did.

In this case… I wanted to see him dead on the ground and step over his corpse.

I wanted to see if my father's assurance when Lucinda and I set off for our stint with the Legion, that killing someone was not a natural act and scarred the one who did it, was true. I remember him offering the hope that we would never have to kill anyone for that reason and because no father wants his children in harm's way when he's seen the face of war.

All I could think, in succinct terms, was: 'you Thalmor bastard, I hope you rot and sooner rather than later.'

My guts clenched as I glanced the other way: three other wagons moved ahead of us, flanked with riders—there had been more in the troupe when Brendan and I had followed it… and I saw no sign of him, so I assumed he really was dead, killed by that first arrow.

I shivered as, once again, the arrow taking him clean off his horse replayed in my mind.

It was getting on in the day, meaning we would have to stop somewhere for the night. I shuddered at the thought, concern moving from my family to my immediate predicament.

"You there," the horse-thief said, breaking me away from fearful contemplation of my immediate future. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

The blonde Stormcloak laughed humorlessly, his mouth twisting grimly. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

Don't I know it?

The thief subsided, eyeing Ulfric warily. I might have done so, too, if Ulfric was glowering at me like that. His expression said quite clearly: _shut up, you're bothering me._

"So, what's with him—" the horse-thief began.

Even I snorted. The man must not be a native or he wouldn't ask such a question. "Please don't get them started," I moaned putting my face in my hands—and realizing that only Ulfric had his hands tied behind him, so he couldn't remove the gag on his own; the rest of us, although bound at the wrist, had out hands in our laps. Easily visible.

It surprised me, upon this realization, that his men hadn't tried to ungag him themselves. Or maybe they needed a plan before trying something clever in their unarmed state. A Shout was useful, but not against these numbers. Or maybe they were just waiting for something. The idea of being caught in a second ambuscade made my head hurt even more.

Ulfric heard me, but merely scowled more deeply, probably at the situation in general; I suppose the opinion of a young woman my age doesn't mean much to a Jarl. Particularly since, by looks alone, it's clear that I'm not of his party, though my family has been in Skyrim for several generations. As I've said, the blood mingles when it comes to humans; this divide between 'true Nords' and 'Imperials' and 'everyone else' is a load of garbage.

The blood mingles. And now it does so on the land instead of only in the veins.

"Watch your tongue," the blonde Stormcloak snapped irritably at the horse-thief (though he had a deprecating look for me, too). "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the _true_ High King." And it couldn't have been more plain that the lad couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be than with his master.

I found his optimistic idealism… strange.

Then again, I don't deal much with soldiers of any faction. I haggle with merchants and make good bargains for the family business. All I know of war came from my father's stories—the ones he would tell, at least; all I know of combat came from my parents' insistence that my sister and I learn the dagger and the bow—better to have the skills and not need them than to need them and not have them; all I know of the military is what I learned while serving in Supply.

"I… who… what?" the horse-thief looked like he was going to be sick.

Oh, do lean over the edge if you must be…

The horse-thief broke into stammers circling around the question of 'if _he's_ here, where are they taking _us_?!'

Answer: 'some Imperial-held town or stronghold where he'll likely be executed so he can't cause any more trouble.' I just don't know which one. It wasn't odd to find that they had doubled back out of Eastmarch to take the southern road towards Whiterun Hold.

"Shut up back there," one of the Imperial drivers snapped. Someone else was tired of Stormcloak propaganda, eh?

I glanced back at the Thalmor, another surge of hatred shooting through me. There was no pain this time, no shock at the intensity of the emotion. It simply was, though it had lost some of the heat of that first surge. Now I felt cold, the same kind of cool calm I use when negotiating with someone who doesn't want to negotiate… but who will when I finish working on them.

My sister, of the two of us, is the _nice_ one. She gets her way through sweetness and smiles. A kinder soul I don't know. I get my way through cunning and trickery (though never anything open to the charge of 'chicanery') even if I maintain a certain fairness in my dealings.

And the Thalmor had taken her away from me. My best friend. My closest confidante. The only person in the world who really understood me. And I was all that to her. And they _took her from me._

I missed the thief's whining words, but the tone told me enough.

"I don't know where we're going," the blonde Stormcloak answered, "but Sovngarde awaits." He glanced at me, met my gaze for a second, as if wondering whether he ought to have said something that fatalistic in front of the lady.

I didn't care: all I could think of, when not brooding, was how this would _kill_ my mother. Me, taken with the Stormcloaks and, unless Fate intervened or people had open eyes, killed with them. As an accomplice.

No Lucinda.

No Leandra.

I began to flay my lip, glancing back at the Thalmor. Damn him. Damn them _all_. The hatred I was now nursing made me feel like a boat on the ocean: the waves lifted and dropped the vessel periodically. If I could have jumped from the carriage, dragged him off his horse and pummeled his face into jelly I'd have done it.

Rash action wouldn't work, though. I'd die without accomplishing my goal.

For a moment, a brief moment, I wondered what would happen if I were to yank that gag away from Ulfric's mouth. Probably nothing good, in the long run. He must have noticed my glance because, when I looked away from the gag, I caught him eying me speculatively.

I turned my head away to look past the horses pulling the wagon. This is undoubtedly the worst day of my life. The only saving grace was that Felix was ahead of us, carrying a wounded legionnaire. At least he was alright—the horse, not the legionnaire.

The woman beside me gave a low guffaw, "Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" she demanded with a twisted smile.

"I-what?" the thief asked, shivering.

"What village are you from?" she repeated with a leer, as to someone very slow.

"R-Rorikstead," the thief answered cautiously. "Why?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," the woman answered with the darkest humor I'd ever heard.

That was needlessly cruel… although I'll admit, the thief is getting on my nerves. It's funny: I feel half dead already.

"What about you?" the blonde Stormcloak asked, making me look away from my hands which were now shaking. "Where're you from?"

"Solitude," I answered softly. The three Stormcloaks all looked surprised though Ulfric seemed amused by the irony. His snort said he was.

No one spoke much after that, and I found myself slipping into a dark place that alternated between black despair and blacker hatred—all of the latter aimed at the Elf riding along behind us. I could see it so clearly, strangling him with his own immaculate, overly-long golden hair. I could just _see_ myself jumping out of the wagon, dragging him from his horse and battering his brains out against the cobbles of the road.

Oblivion's Teeth, and it frightened me somewhat, I could just imagine—

Or maybe I'd fallen into sleep and dreams. There wasn't much to do except sleep or think.

-L-

We stopped overnight, which was worse for me than the wagon ride. I'd never had cause to feel afraid of the Imperial Legion, but one hears stories to emphasize 'don't get captured' and it's hard not to think about them when it's you who have been captured. Except for the horse-thief, I think I was the most nervous person there. Being captured and taken who-knew-where to face who-knew-what left me feeling sick.

Nothing untoward happened, unless one counts not being fed. Lucky me, I felt too sick to eat, but it made the horse-thief whine and complain even more. I thought it was a shame that he whined and made more fuss than someone in my position: a supporter of the Legion and—some might append—a woman, certainly a well-bred one, used to a certain standard of treatment.

I did learn that the blonde Stormcloak, the chatty one, went by the name Ralof and was from Riverwood. I didn't feel particularly talkative, but it was better to speak in soft but audible tones (else we'd be interrupted by our Imperial watcher who would assume we were plotting something). Ralof was inclined to small talk; maybe he had trouble with silence or maybe he saw my nervousness and distress and was kind enough to try to do something about it.

He wasn't what I'd have expected from a Stormcloak. My being 'an Imperial' (in looks) didn't seem to trouble him. In fact, he spoke to me much as I might have spoken to a fellow citizen of Solitude. There was no real substance to the conversation, but it was a distraction and I was grateful for it.


	3. Chapter 3

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for looking over this!

-L-

It was Ralof who knew where we were, as we drew close to a town surrounded by a wooden palisade. "This is Helgen. Huh. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."

Probably. Things in Skyrim stay fairly the same unless there's upheaval. Small towns go on with their day-to-day life until an army marches through. It surprised me, though, how quickly we seemed to get there.

"It's funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe," he concluded before falling silent with a fortifying slow exhale that puffed out his scruffy cheeks. I think we'd all lost track of having morning mouth—ours, and that of others. It didn't matter since no one could do a thing about it.

As for Imperial fortifications… I know the feeling. I swallowed hard, hoping that if I had to die I could go quickly and do it gracefully.

It was a good hope to have: given the number of troops and the way they seemed to be expecting us there could be no doubt that this was where it all ended. It made my eyes sting, but pride beat the sign of weakness back. It was a little insulting, though, to think that a traveler might be taken and executed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The horse-thief—I didn't bother remembering his name—gave a low whine as we passed the gates. "Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me," he half breathed, half cried.

Mother Mara, compassion and benevolence, guide me through this trial. Speak well of me when I am judged.

I hadn't _quite_ given up hope that I might yet be pardoned—what's a woman supposed to do when attacked unexpectedly but fight back?—but I didn't hold much hope of it. Everything seemed so big and imposing; morale-lowering, if truth be told (and not just for me— _how_ the garrison can stand being here, I have no idea).

Making unhurried petitions to the Eight seemed a better use of my time than letting fear overwhelm me; the old stock prayers for hard times came easily to mind and gave me something to focus on.

Or they did until I noticed that there was a cluster of Thalmor watching from behind the soldiers, impassive and jaundiced, their faces were as empty as their hearts were bound to be. My hand curled into a fist, thoughts of preparing my soul for whatever came next vanishing. I am no expert with a bow (by my own standards). However, the wagon was moving slowly enough that I could probably hit my target as long as I was accurate when calculating the height at which I would need to aim with a bow and the angle I would need to shoot from a moving vehicle to take the foremost one right through the chest—

The wagons stopped with a shudder, the drivers dropping their reins as the soldiers swarmed in.

Today, I was sitting in the corner of the wagon nearest the driver. Ulfric was out first, followed by the Stormcloak woman, then the horse-thief—who was almost dragged out—the Stormcloak I didn't know, then Ralof. It was strange swinging down out of the wagon without my arms to balance me. I landed in a stumble—the drop was further for me than the Stormcloaks—only to have hands catch at my upper arm to keep me from staggering too far.

"Thank you," I breathed to Ralof, who nodded his acknowledgement of the sentiment. By now I shook from head to foot as we were marched forward.

It didn't surprise me when the Stormcloak woman sneered, but at what she sneered did. "They've even got General Tullius the Military Governor out here to oversee this _glorious victory_."

What's _he_ doing _here_?

I looked around for a moment and then picked him out. I knew him by sight, of course, though I didn't know him personally. I suppose it isn't surprising… or maybe it shouldn't be… though he had to have been down here already—or was well on the way—to get here before we did.

What was Ulfric doing in the Rift? He either had business there or took a ridiculously roundabout way back to Eastmarch. What had he done, paused to make personal appearances at every capital and major town that accepts him as High King?

Hmph. Maybe. I suppose it makes sense… of a sort… no. No, it really didn't.

"And it looks like the Thalmor are with him," one of the others from another wagon growled, "Damn elves. I bet _they_ had something to do with this."

My skin prickled uncomfortably. I didn't look at the Thalmor again. It wouldn't help anything.

The thief suddenly grabbed my arm as the soldiers began forming us up into a line. He did not address me, however, seeming to hope for courage by the contact. I soon shook him off, feeling thoroughly disgusted at being his bulwark of strength in a time of crisis.

"You've got to tell them!" he implored the Stormcloaks. "I wasn't with you! This is a _mistake_!"

That was when I decided my sister had to be dead. Whoever heard of people in power admitting to a mistake—and the Thalmor especially? It wouldn't do for word to get out that they were as fallible as anyone else.

Why, Zenithar? Why my sister? She was good. She was faithful. This world is poorer without her.

There was a list of 'rebels,' which moniker was derided by several of the Stormcloaks and followed by several shows of unintimidated contempt (and a couple catcalls, even).

'The Empire and their lists,' 'true blah-blah-blah,' that sort of thing being amongst the contempt; comments about mothers and lineages being amongst the catcalls.

As far as I was concerned, that list was the only way I might get out of this… but again, mistakes and people in power? _I_ could do it, but my faith in others is wanting.

It was the only way the horse-thief might get out of this… though they'd still put him in prison unless he could redeem himself with coin. Then again… without a prison they might just execute him for convenience. Especially since this isn't the Hold in which he was captured—Holds don't prosecute one another's criminals usually, though if the offenses are egregious enough this convention is bent.

That explains the haste in getting us here and why prisoners were preferred to corpses on the road: the executions take place in a Hold that would support them, rather than in one where the Imperialists would be seen as the aggressors, which they were in this case. As it was, they get to take some kind of moral ground based on the executions being 'a legitimate enterprise.'

I have never felt so disillusioned by the justice practiced by my compatriots. Not, I'm sure, that anyone will ever know _where_ Ulfric was taken into custody. All they'll know is where he died.

The man with the list, taking names and matching them, was about the same age as Ralof and I. I didn't doubt that if anyone lied it would be found out sooner or later. It would end the same way, but it seemed that the Stormcloaks were all too proud over becoming martyrs.

Well… when there's nothing you could do to stop it…

Record-Keeper's eyes kept darting along the line of prisoners, and I couldn't tell if he was hoping not to see someone or if he was just seeing if he could recognize anyone.

"Sonja Blackthorne."

"Heinrich of Morthal."

"Ulfric Stormcloak—Jarl of Windhelm." Record-Keeper had to identify Ulfric himself, since the man was gagged. The Jarl drew himself up so he absolutely towered and I had to wonder how much of his bulk was due to his manner of dress—heavy furs and wool—and how much was actually him.

Record-Keeper's eyes caught Ralof and a crease appeared between his brows, as if they knew one another.

Ralof drew himself up as well, jutting out his chin in a pugnacious attitude.

Record-Keeper immediately hiked on an expression of intensified disdain.

Oh yes. Old friends, and Ralof's next words—as Ulfric was pulled out of line and marched to the front—proved it, for he leveled them at Record-Keeper, "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

"Ralof of Riverwood." Record-Keeper supplied, moving on to the horse-thief in front of me.

"L-Lokir of Rorikstead. I'm not a rebel!" the thief shrieked, the pitch making me wince.

"He's a horse-thief, but he was taken with the rest," one of the soldiers from our guard announced.

"Lokir of Rorikstead, we'll see," Record-Keeper responded, scribbling on his paper.

"Y-you can't _do_ this!" At that point, the horse-thief completely lost his head and broke out of the line, panting and whimpering.

He got about ten paces (in the wrong direction) before an arrow fetched him down.

My mind seemed to ring, reverberating like a bell as I saw another arrow strike another man. Only instead of falling face-first and skidding along the ground, the other man had been thrown backwards from his horse. I shook my head to banish the memory.

"Anyone else feel like running?" an officer—this one a woman—demanded. It was clearly she who had fired the shot that fetched the horse-thief down. At least he never saw it coming, I suppose. Not like the rest of us.

Lady Kyne, carry my spirit on the wings of the wind into the world beyond.

"Your name?" Record-Keeper prompted, suggesting that his silence was supposed to be the venue I should take for giving it.

My military title—Supply Sergeant—got stuck in my throat. "Leandra Ashlynn of Solitude. I'm an employee of Box of Wonders in that city. Thus, I will not be on your list," I declared, surprised at how calm I sounded, despite the trembling of my body; it was like I was talking to a seneschal while demanding an audience from someone.

Record-Keeper looked the list over.

"She _isn't_ with us, Hadvar," Ralof breathed softly, as if passing an answer to someone who was about to be very, very wrong in company.

Hadvar's expression knitted together, but he completed his diligent look down the list. I wouldn't have expected anything else—having been in Supply, it's what I'd have done. Finally, he glanced at Ralof, then at me to take in the fact that I did look quite different from the Stormcloaks, then turned so he could look at the Captain without wrenching his neck to do so. "Captain? This one—Miss Ashlynn—isn't on the list."

"On my parents' souls, she's not," Ralof pressed in an undertone.

"No?" The captain stomped over, looking me up and down, her eyebrows arching. "So, who are you then, hm? You're a long way from the Imperial City. What are you doing in Skyrim and have you your papers?"

I was, of course, dressed in the Imperial fashion of Solitude, current for a woman travelling. It was an easy mistake to make, assuming I was an out-of-Province visitor (and would, thus, need papers).

"I am a lifelong citizen of Skyrim and the Empire, having fulfilled my stint in the Legion," I answered darkly, holding her level gaze with an intensity she apparently found uncomfortable. Or maybe it was just my smothering tone. "I work for Box of Wonders in Solitude. Leandra Ashlynn, at your service, Captain." The words were polite, but the tone indicated the pleasantries were empty. "I was on business in the Rift on behalf of that shop and returning for a death in the family when your ambuscade was launched."

"Captain?" Hadvar prompted when the Captain was silent. He looked uncomfortable, as though inclined to believe my accounting with or without Ralof's endorsement. And to execute a right and proper citizen clearly didn't sit well with him.

I suppose that might have been part of the Captain's silence, but as she didn't ask me questions about my time with the Legion I didn't volunteer anything more.

"What should we do?" Hadvar pressed after a few moments of silence during which the Captain continued to scrutinize me. "She's absolutely not on the list."

"What's going on over here?" a smooth voice asked.

Like a shark in water, a Thalmor swept up, the soldiers parting for him.

"We've to an unaccounted-for prisoner," the Captain answered tartly, clearly resenting the interruption.

"Name?" he asked, fixing me with a glittering golden gaze.

"Leandra Ashlynn, former Supply Sergeant in the Imperial Legion, now a private citizen," I repeated. "My father owns Box of Wonders in Solitude, and I work for him."

The Thalmor studied me thoughtfully. Finally, he looked over at the Captain, like a man placing an order with a shopkeep. "She was taken with the rest, so let her die with the rest. These Stormcloaks aren't a clever bunch on the whole, but this one… I don't trust her manners."

I proved him wrong before I really through about it.

I sucked hard and spat in his face, blocking the hand that would have slapped me by catching his wrist against the chain binding mine, crossing my wrists above to form a manacle. I might have succeeded in twisting correctly to break his arm, something they teach in the Legion and I did it only to say I fought back, which is what I've always been encouraged to do should I find myself in a bad situation. Unfortunately, I never got the chance to do more than detain him.

My sudden defiance caused some commotion, but not as much as when I screamed, lighting lacing around my body.

I hit the ground heavily, twitching and shaking, trying to figure out what had just happened. The pain, as my clearing head explained it was simple: he'd hit me with a lightning spell—not too strong, because of the chain linking us, but strong enough to disengage me and then knock me to the ground.

Something warm and wet hit my cheek. "She can go _first_ ," the Thalmor said, his tone not quite as smooth.

I was dragged to my feet but quickly drew myself to my full height, contriving to look down my nose at the Thalmor—who returned my expression with interest. "Good. I hate waiting," I growled back. If all I could do was speak, I was determined to have the last word.

Merciful Stendarr, look kindly upon me as I depart this life.

I was pulled out of line by Hadvar at a nod from his captain and, not ungently, escorted up to the front of the column. By now I was shaking from head to foot, but felt colder and angrier than ever. The elf's spit slid down my cheek and I hoped my bad breath clung to what I flung at him long after he wiped it away.

I was brought to stand by Ulfric, who had been divested of his wraps to give the executioner a clean view of his neck. He didn't look much smaller without his wraps, contrary to my expectations.

I swallowed, then clamped my teeth in an effort to stop my shaking.

Lord Arkay, my wheel is about to turn. May the life it turns on be found acceptable.

"I'm sorry," Hadvar breathed, sounding genuine. "We'll make sure your remain are returned to—"

"They can bury me with the other innocents!" I shouted in the general direction of the Thalmor. "You'd know my face by hers!"

Ulfric snorted. I imagine it meant 'nice one, why don't you annoy them further? At least the axe is quicker.'

Mind your own business. I'm not the one gagged and _unable_ to spit vitriol.

At this point, General Tullius appeared in front of Ulfric and me.

I clamped my mouth shut but more because Ulfric's snort—or what I read from it—had a point.

Julianos, law and order, judge my deeds as they warrant as dispose of me as I have earned—and remember those who today wrong me.

Tullius studied Ulfric as my own wraps were taken. Fortunately, my hair was already up and out of the way. Otherwise I've no doubt they'd cut it off. Not that it would matter once I was dead, but I wasn't dead _yet_.

"Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero," Tullius noted.

Around his gag, Ulfric grinned. _There always are such people._

Tullius got the gist because the lines in his face deepened as he scowled. "But a hero does not use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Oddly enough, there was a quality to Ulfric's scowl that suggested he might not consider that his most heroic action… although clearly 'necessary' in his mind.

Well he shouldn't. I'd have fewer things to say if Ulfric had met Torygg man-to-man (so to speak, as Torygg was too young for my definition of 'man') with sword in hand instead of Shouting the poor lad to death.

Ulfric seemed to annoy Tullius by existing… and I thought the Jarl might just be well aware of it. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos. Now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace."

Oh, yes. _Do_ make him a martyr—and Ulfric's distorted smirk said as much.

There was a strange sound on the wind and, for a moment, a shadow passed over the sun.

"What was that?" Hadvar asked nervously.

"It's nothing," Tullius growled. "Carry on, Captain."

Akatosh, Father Time—

"Yes, General Tullius!" the Captain snapped a salute, her fist crashing against her breastplate. She turned sharply and spoke just as sharply to a priestess I hadn't noticed. "Give them their last rights."

Akatosh, Father Time—

The priestess stepped forward and raised her hands. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you—"

I'm really going to die here… and for Stendarr's sake, quit breaking my train of thought!

"For the love of Talos shut up and let's get this over with!" one of the Stormcloaks shouted, echoing my thoughts (more or less). His raillery was repeated amongst the condemned until the priestess looked helplessly at the Captain, as though unsure what to do.

I felt as if my soul had already begun to leave my body, and that the cruel axe the executioner brandished by the block was just a snip of scissors to set me completely loose.

"Then let these heathens have their way," the Captain said indifferently.

The priestess nodded, then stepped back to her original place. She must have been new, I thought, for she looked distressed and confused.

Look away, girl. This isn't going to be pretty.

A noise carried on the wind, a shriek that I didn't recognize. I wasn't the only one who heard it, for some of the Imperialists—even some of the Thalmor—were looking around for the source of it.

"There it is again—tell me you heard that, sir!" Hadvar pressed, looking deeply unnerved.

"Prisoner!" the Captain barked, clinging to her orders as if they staved off the strangeness. No one likes strange sounds in Skyrim. They usually mean something bad—like necromancers or werewolves or vampires or the like. Unnatural, usually unpleasant things; Skyrim seems to have a lot of those, wild province that it is.

I shook off Hadvar's hold on my arm and marched, straight backed and proud—or so I hoped—up to the block. I looked the Executioner in the eye through his hood, then knelt. Someone had already been executed this morning, for the blood on the block was fresh though growing sticky, glittering in the sun.

I grunted as, apparently not moving fast enough, the Executioner shot out a hand and pushed my head down on the block. He smashed my face against it, and I barely had enough time to turn my face so he didn't crush my nose up into my sinuses. The impact did catch the bruise I'd earned the other day squarely, which made my whole head hurt.

I stifled the whimper of pain and, when someone's boot came to rest on my back to keep me in position, banished the sting the pain had caused to involuntarily spring up.

I had a good view of the Stormcloaks and the Imperialists as I knelt there, the last victim's blood staining my face and seeping into my hair. The sun felt so hot on my skin, the wind so gentle and cool. Anger pooled in my belly and I swore to myself that if I could wrangle it, I was going to come back as a ghost and _haunt_ these people.

It was because I was facing the opposite direction of everyone else that I saw it. Something dark that streaked through the clouds from the direction of the Throat of the World.

I thought I was _seeing_ things—Akatosh isn't known for sending avatars to fetch the wrongly executed… and, come to think of it, I never finished petitioning him.

A second later I knew I was wrong, for the dark shape streaked towards us. I didn't have time to scream before the beast swooped low—a dragon, an actual _dragon—_ scattering people as it went. It wheeled in a tight turn to land on the nearest tower, the rocks giving way beneath its weight, causing it to scrabble for its footing before it reared back on its hind legs, beating its wings to stay upright before screaming again.

I was on my feet, looking at the monster, dumbstruck.

The thing gave a roar that consisted of actual physical _force_. It winged the Executioner and send him stumbling into me. Another such scream caught us both and threw us back. The momentum flung us around, ending with my landing on the Executioner—already dead from the first impact with the ground, which had snapped something with a sickening crunch.

I was on my feet in a trice, ignoring the vertigo of having been thrown like a doll by a petulant child. The dragon and everyone else seemed to have watched the spectacular fly-and-bounce the Executioner and I performed—the one in amusement, the others in shock.

The thing was big and black; if evil had an avatar it would be this creature. Nothing about it was beautiful or to be appreciated: it was death and torment and who knew what else. And it was huge, spikey, spiny, not unlike the twisted armor of a summoned Dremora.

There was a name for such a creature. I grew up _knowing_ the name for that creature… but only in the way mythic villains are always known. I never expected to see it—him—in person.

Swords jumped numbly to hands as prisoners dumbly realized their position. Dragons went extinct ages ago, outside of living memory. They were _gone…_ and now there's this one.

I snapped myself out of my shock with effort. The need to _do_ _something_ provided both an idea of what to do and the strength to throw myself into motion to do it.

I sprinted forward, reached Ulfric (who seemed on the verge of turning to try and take advantage of the situation) and grabbed his gag with both hands. The fabric gave and I knew from the pull that the knot was too tight for me to get it loose. His captors had taken no chances. He pulled against me, the fabric working against his teeth—the only tool we had between us—until it split enough for me to drag it from his mouth. He shot out a hand, caught me by the arm, and flung me staggering back, out of his way.

The Shout was wordless, but standing behind him I didn't catch much of the… can I call it 'wash of the sound?'

The dragon threw back its head and spat fire as though insulted at the answer to its own noise. I'd already thrown myself to the ground when I saw it draw back its head, like a snake before it bites. Ulfric was a second slower, landing with a heavy 'oof!' and an expletive, the fireball sailing over our heads and breaking the momentary stillness during which I'd acted.

"Cover!" Ulfric barked, struggling to get to his feet—as he had his hands behind him he had trouble. I grabbed his arm and gave him something against which to balance as he pulled himself up. It was hard work not to stagger as I did so, for he was a large fellow. In the chaos, faced with a thing like that, it seemed wrong to leave anyone at that thing's mercy. "Get to cover!" Whether he was shouting to his men or to anyone with a lick of sense—a dragon is somewhat outside partisan lines, I think—I wasn't sure.

A second later, Tullius was shouting much the same thing, only with more instructions. Captive and captor could plainly be sorted out later—right now fiery death was the big scaly problem.

Another fireball sizzled and seemed so badly aimed—despite the fact that it set wooden structures alight like so much kindling and killed if it hit—that I suspected the dragon of amusing himself by watching us run. It would explain why I had time to help work Ulfric's gag free.

I hated that dragon, that big, stupid, scaly worm. Dancing like a marionette on someone else's strings is not something I've ever taken well.

The Thalmor were certainly running away, shields to protect themselves glittering like heat haze, heading for the nearest cover… but they also defied my expectations, barrages of ice and lightning covering their retreat as they jabbered at one another in their mother tongue. From the tone they were as appalled and shocked as anyone else.

The Imperialists followed them, the archers among them fired with a mix of good and bad aim at the dragon, while the unarmed Stormcloaks headed the opposite direction, also for cover.

I was closer to the Stormcloaks, so I followed Ulfric, pausing only long enough to grab the bow and quiver someone had dropped. It wouldn't be any help while my hands were still bound, but if I could get loose I could do _something_.

Ulfric and his men had picked a part of the garrison complex—the one the Imperialists weren't running to—as their bolt hole. By the time he and I arrived, about a dozen of his men had packed in, some of them singed, all of them looking shocked.

"How many are we?" Ulfric demanded briskly, his eyes raking the group.

His brisk return to normalcy—as if there hadn't been a dragon, just an ambuscade—seeming to snap others out of their shock.

"About a dozen," Ralof answered. I was glad to see he'd made it out alive. "I saw more—"

Three more came pelting in. "We're the last!" one of them, a woman I didn't know, panted. She leaned forward, trying to catch her breath.

"Damn," Ulfric cursed, looking around. His eyes slid over me and he nodded once as if acknowledging that he probably would have been killed, close as he was to that thing, without my help. He had pink lines down his face where my nails had scored the flesh, and more along his jaw and the corner of his mouth where we'd wrestled with his gag.

The building rumbled as a scream the likes of which I could never imagine and which I could probably not describe for anyone rent the air. Many people lifted arms to try to cover their ears, though it didn't do much good. My teeth grit together so hard I was sure I'd fracture them all… but it was preferable to having them rattle against one another.

"Who's armed?" Ulfric demanded.

Several people—myself included—indicated they were. Those with heavy blades moved quickly, hacking through one another's bonds before moving on to the rest of us. My shoulders protested once they could move freely again as I examined the silver bracelets and their lengths of chain. The delicate flesh beneath my sleeves was chafed red from the bindings.

I immediately checked the bow, made sure it was strung properly, that there was no more or less give in the bowstring than there should be, tested the way the wood bent. That done—and while everyone else was checking weapons obtained from the dead—I buckled the quiver on at my hip, checking that the cap twisted on properly… and that it was full.

Thank you, Father, for insisting we learn the bow.

"Can you even use that, Supply?" Ulfric's voice demanded. I imagine he was imagining his or his men's buttocks resembling pincushions. That is, of course, giving me the benefit of the doubt that I wouldn't put arrows anywhere lethal.

"Don't _start_ with me," I snarled back without thinking. Only a fool picks up a bow if she can't use it. Swords are easy. Any brainless hulk can use one of those.

Ulfric's grin was wolfish and several stifled chuckles followed.

A feisty Imperial. Who knew?

I didn't care. This is no time to worry about politics. I just want out of this place before it becomes my grave.

The gods—or one of them—gave me a second chance, I'm not about to waste it.

"Are you alright?" Ralof asked, his eyes lingering on the coating blood of upon my face.

I wiped at it, but found it already crusting over. I did what I could and wiped the mess on my traveling coat. "Fine, thank you." My head ached from the stress, but it also felt oddly clear.

The building shook again, this time rocks came falling from above. We all flattened ourselves against walls, anything to get out of the way. A moment later a shriek was heard in the opposite direction.

Ulfric pulled Ralof aside and said something quiet to him, to which Ralof nodded readily.

Then, he addressed the rest of the group: "We can't stay here." His tone calm and firm but with an edge, and helped quell even my nerves. His eyes darted about. "You three and you," he pointed at Ralof, two others, and me, "up through the tower! If that thing's done what I think it's done—you three, that way, you four, with me. Make your ways to the Keep, there're always siege tunnels or the like. Get yourselves back to Windhelm and report in. Talos go with you! Move!"

He and his men scattered with an efficiency that the Imperial Army lacks; it was also a classic tactic for an irregular militant force to break into small groups so not everyone can be captured again.

Well, not unless they're really unlucky.

I followed Ralof up the stairs to see what the dragon had done that Ulfric was betting on.

The thing had sheared off several levels of the tower. One moment we were running up the coiling staircase, the next we were out of staircase with the Hearthfire wind tugging at our hair, the sun blinding our eyes.

"Can you make the jump?" Ralof shouted.

The jump was a rather nasty one, but as I saw it I didn't have a choice. The idea was to leap from the tower to the broken remains of the tower and stagger along those into the inn through its now more-holey-than-righteous roof. It was a leap to get to the start of the wreckage, but almost like a stairway to get to the burning inn from there. It occurred to me that, with the exception of the jump, this might be the easiest way to the small Keep.

Perhaps Ulfric's way of saying 'thank you,' even though saving him probably saved me, too.

I made the jump without preamble, landing badly, but suffering nothing worse than bruised knees and scraped palms or knuckles. I turned moving to clear the landing spot onto to see the sun bouncing off on Ralof's blond head. "Go down through the inn! The Keep's that way! Find Hadvar! He'll look after you!"

And then he and the men with him were gone.

I now knew what Ulfric had told him in that moment of quiet conversation: _get her back to her own people, then double back and find us._ I could only assume that they felt the Legion would be better disposed towards me if I showed up on their side instead of in company with the Stormcloaks.

I wasn't so sure, considering I'd been the one who turned Ulfric loose in the first place, but I was committed.

The dragon was still somewhere. I could hear him whooshing around and occasional screaming or throwing fire. The fire had a distinctive sound before it caught on anything.

The streets outside the inn were in chaos: citizens screamed and panicked, corpses burned like strangely-shaped black candles. Buildings sent smoke coiling into the air—air perfumed disgustingly with cooking meat and any kind of burning smell one can imagine… and a few one couldn't. The smoke stung my eyes and throat, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe it was the smell that made it hard to breathe.

"Come on, Haming!"

The voice belonged to Hadvar of the List. He had a handful of survivors with him, but no other Legionnaires. "That-a-boy, you're doing great! Torolf!" This shout to an elder lagging behind.

"Down!" I screamed, catching sight of something black in the smoke, looping and twirling for another stoop.

Hadvar didn't ask questions, he simply flung himself to the ground, covering the child (who, understandably, screamed), doing his best to shield the boy.

I threw myself down as well, covering my face. Dirt mingled with the blood as waves of heat struck us.

Looking up, I found no remains of Torolf. The fireball seemed to have hit him squarely, reducing him to less than a cinder.

Hadvar, covering Haming's eyes, got to his knees. "Damn it all! What are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm not a Stormcloak! They didn't want me tagging along!" I answered, coughing from the smoke. It's true in as few words as possible.

"We'll sort this out later, come on!" Hadvar barked.

I uncapped my quiver and pulled an arrow. I don't think an arrow would go through dragonhide—especially not the standard issue ones of the Imperial Legion, but it was better to think I could shoot than not.

Especially if anyone got any ideas about finishing what the Executioner started.

We had just come in sight of the Keep's front gate when Hadvar ground to a halt.

"Dagon's balls!"

"Ralof!" Hadvar might have put hand to sword if he hadn't been carrying Haming.

"Fight it out later!" I snarled. "That thing's still out here!"

Both men glared at each other, but Hadvar hiked the boy a bit higher and we all ran into the main entrance of the Keep. Hallways led in either direction from here.

Hadvar put Haming down, panting as he did so, taking a knee beside the boy who seemed terrified beyond all but the most basic thoughts. "Hey, there. You're a brave lad," he soothed, ruffling the boy's hair as if it might help.

Hadvar shunted the boy to stand with me, leaving me scowling at this as I rested a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. The boy turned his face into my side, sniffling softly while trying to live up to 'brave boy.' I gently finger-combed his hair, but found I didn't know what to say to help. Anything that came to mind seemed too ridiculous a lie.

"I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde," Hadvar snapped at the Stormcloaks.

I said nothing, merely set aside the boy as I moved towards the wall of grey and blue. I didn't like it, but it was clear he wouldn't go with the Stormcloaks.

"What are you doing?" Ralof demanded sharply as we broke up with Hadvar's group, "Ulfric sent you _back_ to them for a reason."

"And meet that Thalmor bastard sooner than I have to?" I shot back. "Not on your life. Besides—I'd rather not rejoin them only to have them execute me since they can't have _you_ fellows. People have been known to do that sort of thing."

Honestly, I think Ulfric wasn't thinking far enough ahead, not that he was being malicious. And if _I_ can say something charitable like that at a time like this… then it's probably true.

Ralof opened his mouth, then snorted, shaking his head. His face looked very pink under the soot, as though he'd gotten too close to something hot. "Fair enough."

"What are _you_ doing here? I thought you were going with Ulfric," I asked.

"We tried. That monster had collapsed the way by the time we got there. This is the only way we can go," Ralof answered, indicating the hallways leading into the Keep.

"Fair enough," I responded, uncannily mirroring his earlier sentiment.

-L-

Something in my mind snapped as I stood there on the stairs in what seemed to be a dungeon complex. Two Thalmor and several Imperialists stood in talk. In cages were corpses and hanging from her wrists—

The woman was blonde and fair skinned… where she wasn't bloody. Yet all I could see was Lucinda. I _knew_ I was looking at a stranger but at the same time it was like looking into my sister's present. The bow twanged, taking one of the Thalmor as he turned to look at the stairway down which Ralof and his group were hurrying. A second arrow wounded the other elf as the first dropped.

He just _had_ to move because his stupid friends just _had_ to make a noise… otherwise the shot would have been clean.

My father insisted my sister and I learn the bow. I do not consider myself a spectacular shot, but that's only by my own high standards: I can hit my mark, especially at this range. Another arrow finished what the first started, meaning that the Stormcloaks only needed to fight Legionnaires.

It was like shooting targets back in Solitude, only louder. And I cared about as much about those dropping elves as I cared about those hay-backed targets. Whatever scars killing a man is supposed to leave on the soul, I didn't feel them. Even when the second elf had screamed at the first arrow and tried to block the pain long enough to cast a spell at me, when blood blossomed from the wound, when sweat stood out on her brow… I didn't care. The second shot made the death relatively clean.

The dead faces of the Imperialists killed along the way to this chamber bothered me; even if I hadn't been the one to kill them I hadn't prevented it either. I could agree to some culpability, extreme circumstances or not. With the Thalmor, though, it was different. They were dead…

…and I still didn't care. Two drops in a bucket.

But it was a good start.

I crushed the thought as brutally as I could. I am a merchant and if going back to that life is possible… then back I shall go.

But the thought lingered: what about Lucinda?


	4. Chapter 4

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for looking this over!

-L-

It was by the grace of the Eight that we found the siege tunnel Ulfric mentioned the place as having to have. Unfortunately, we proved to be the first out—there were too many giant, nasty spiders for anyone to have been through before us.

Their sticky webs seemed to cover everything, as though they found stone under their too-many feet unpleasant. I'd never seen so much webbing in one place: it hung in festoons everywhere and brought with it a strangely clammy smell mixed with hints of rotting vegetation and rotting meat.

Between the fight in the dungeon and getting through the siege tunnel—little more than a natural cave system over which the Keep had been built—the only ones to make it out were Ralof and me.

We reached the exit just in time to see the dragon shoot off like an arrow from a bow, screaming all the way, twisting and sideswiping through the wind as if glad of the opportunity to stretch his wings. "That's… heading for Riverwood," Ralof breathed, his flushed skin going pale.

"Or Whiterun," I answered.

He voiced my thought perfectly: "Damn." That said, we both took a moment to fortify ourselves. He looked hopefully behind us, as if he expected—or wanted—to see Ulfric and a gang of Stormcloaks emerging out of the gloom, blood-spattered and ready for another round.

I moved to go first, but Ralof didn't see. He sighed, turning away from the way we'd come and, cutting across my path of travel, went ahead. "Be mindful," he murmured as we stepped outside, into the sunny patch formed by the exit to the caves.

The sun blinded me as I stepped into it, so although I heard sudden hoof-beats, I had trouble seeing who they belonged to.

"Blessings of Arkay on you both!"

Ralof, who was a practical sort, had liberated a bow for himself. That proved fortuitous, because it's far better to fight a spider at a distance than to let them get close. It makes for easier dodging when they spit venom at you.

The sound of the voice startled him so badly that he had the weapon raised, though the arrow was loose against the string, before I finished assessing the threat. A threat does not often address one in the name of one of the Eight, but I suppose if I'd gone out first I might have been just as jumpy.

The voice belonged to a woman, accompanied by a Dremora bodyguard. The sun gleamed off her red hair, and her blue eyes were bright beneath a worried brow; the Dremora's armor seemed to drink in the light, turning him into a spiky figure of concentrated darkness. Her gear was varied and there was a lot of it. She looked like an adventuress ready for just about anything 'adventure' could throw at her.

The redhead jumped off her horse and threw the reins to the disgruntled Dremora. "Are you hurt?" she demanded, eyes raking my face.

I reached up to touch the mess that coated my face. Sweat had kept the blood from crusting fully; dirt and soot had mingled with it, which left quite the mess on my skin. "It's not mine… " I answered, surprised that my tone should sound so blank. She looked at me as though deeply concerned, so I said the next thing on my mind, "That-that was a _dragon_."

Oh, my. Just saying it made me light-headed. A _dragon_ in a time when there are no such things! They're legends… but legends aren't known for burning down modern-day villages. The smoke overhead left no doubt that Helgen had not seen the end of its troubles.

I hoped the little boy got out.

"Yes," the redhead answered. "Are _you_ hurt?" she asked Ralof.

Ralof stood a bit straighter. "No. That monster was heading for Riverwood. They have to have word." 

"As does Whiterun," the redhead agreed, echoing my earlier statement as she crossed her arms before turning to the still-mounted Dremora. "You're a soldier. Any advice?"

The Dremora jumped out of the saddle, grabbed her horse by the bridle and dragged it forward. The horse resented this, and would have tried to fight loose if it hadn't been a sensible beast. "Give them your horse."

Ralof and I both stiffened upon being approached by this demon of Oblivion. It makes me wonder what kind of person she is to travel with such a creature.

"Mine won't carry two, but I have… another means," the Dremora answered dismissively.

The redhead nodded. "Where will I find him?" she nodded to her mount, which Ralof took from the Dremora. The poor horse seemed glad to be away from the creature and needed a quieting hand on his nose before he deigned to stand still.

"I'll take him and the girl to Riverwood. My sister owns the mill there," Ralof answered, glancing at me as if to ask if it was alright to speak thus.

'Thank you,' I mouthed back.

It was a place to start. Ralof looked back the way we'd come. Then, as if the question was torn from him, "Has no one else come out?"

"None that I've seen. Leave him in Riverwood," the redhead indicated the horse, "Or Whiterun, if that lies on your way. I'll collect him later. Your name?"

"Ralof," answered the bearer of that name. He glanced at me, then flicked his eye sat the horse.

I climbed into the saddle easily—I know how to ride—and he followed clumsily.

Someone who isn't comfortable riding. It was best I got on first.

Ralof didn't seem sure where to put his hands, so I grabbed one wrist and put it across my shoulders and wrapped the other arm around my waist. I clicked my tongue and gently nudged the beast with my heels. I kicked him to a canter, much to Ralof's discomfort.

"Don't worry," I answered him, "just hold on with your knees so you don't bounce so much. Have the stirrups, I left them for you!" A good rider doesn't really need them. "You just keep me going in the right direction!"

Ralof, who apparently thought a rider required stirrups, got his feet into them and found a balance that probably made him feel less like a saddlebag.

I couldn't help but think of Felix, and wondered if he was dead or alive. Nonsensically, I wondered if there was a point in filing a claim with the Legion. Probably not—in fact, I wonder how this whole adventure will affect my life in Solitude. Then again, Holds keep track of crime separately… though General Tullius does live in Solitude, up at Castle Dour…

Well, the charges were trumped up, anyway. Maybe he won't go looking too hard, even if he were to recognize me.

I couldn't run the horse the whole way, as much as I would have liked to. I let him canter until he decided he'd had enough. It didn't take us two hours to reach Riverwood but it seemed longer since neither Ralof nor I had much to say.

We did arrive quickly, though, at the little hamlet.

Ralof clumsily dismounted and looked ready to offer to help me down—which was sweet, seeing how he was moving like someone terribly saddle-sore—but upon remembering I was a good rider desisted and made up for it by taking the horse's reins.

I hit the ground lightly, looking around the small village. It was built along the banks of a river and sported, as its main feature, a large sawmill—hence 'Riverwood.' "Come on. I've got family here," Ralof said, shepherding me with his free hand until he was sure I wouldn't just stand there gawping. "You're good with that bow."

"Thank you. My father insisted I learn. I take it you and Hadvar knew each other?"

Ralof made a face. "Grew up together. His uncle is the town blacksmith."

"Ah. I see." Friends but for politics. That's unfortunate.

Ralof led us to the back of the town, away from the main road, tethered the horse to a tree near the river so it could drink and browse—he could tie a knot even if he wasn't comfortable in the saddle—before leading us to one of the houses.

He knocked on the door briskly.

The door opened to reveal a woman dressed for work, her fair hair pulled back. From the look of her, she could only be Ralof's sister. "Ralof!" she hugged him, despite the fact that he was sweaty and filthy. "Oh, I'm so glad you're alright! We saw a _dragon_ , it—"

"Attacked Helgen first," Ralof said, hugging his sister back. "We were there."

"Oh, my…" The woman stepped back, her eyes taking Ralof then me. "Come in, come in quickly." She hurried us inside, shutting the door firmly.

"Uncle Ralof!" a young boy or about ten threw himself at Ralof who, tired as he was, hiked the boy up and spun him around (wincing as he did so) before setting him back on his feet.

"Hey there, Frodnar. Keeping out of trouble?"

The boy gave him a lopsided grin before noticing me. "Who's _she_?" he asked, pointing.

"Don't point, Frodnar, it's rude. I'm Gerdur," she offered.

"Leandra Ashlynn." I bobbed a slight curtsy. Good manners never go amiss.

"It's serious?" Gerdur asked Ralof.

"Very," he answered.

"Frodnar, go out and play," Gerdur said firmly.

"But mama! I wanna talk to Uncle Ralof!" Frodnar turned to his uncle—who was trying not to look too pleased by his nephew's reception—and began to do just that. "How many Imperials have you killed, Uncle Ralof? Can I see your axe?" It was tucked into his belt, just as his bow was slung over his shoulder. "Do you _really_ know Ulfric Stormcloak?" The boy's eyes were as wide as saucers.

"We'll talk about it later, Frodnar," Ralof said, taking a knee in front of his nephew and putting big hands gently on the boy's shoulders. "Listen, lad. Can you go keep an eye on the road, let us know if any Legionnaires show up?"

The boy looked from him to me. "Does it have to do with _her_?" Frodnar asked, looking at me.

"Absolutely. You're almost a man now," Ralof observed almost somberly. I had the feeling he felt his nephew was growing up a bit too quickly. "Be a gallant one and watch the road for us, hm?"

Frodnar looked at me, then looked at his uncle. "Don't worry, Uncle Ralof. I'll keep a watch. I won't let those Imperials sneak up on you." He hugged his uncle tightly about the neck, a gesture Ralof returned, then detached himself. "Don't worry, Miss." With that, he hurried outside, Gerdur's call to 'send your father back here!' ringing in his ears.

"For goodness' sake, sit down before you fall down," Gerdur insisted, pulling me over to a chair while Ralof threw himself on the bench at the dining table. She stood for a moment, brow knitted, then proceeded to set out lunch for Ralof and I while cleaning away the remains of a meal for three.

I wasn't feeling up to eating just then and from the look on his face Ralof didn't, either. In the quiet of the house, my past few days started to catch up with me. Already, Riften seemed like a dream, the ambush like a bad dream. Even Brendan's death seemed strangely distant or surreal.

A moment later Gerdur's husband entered. "Gerdur what—Ralof."

"Hod," Ralof nodded.

Hod stood beside his wife, arms crossed. "You two look absolutely done in. What's going on?" It was so odd that no one questioned who I was or what I was doing there.

"Done in is one way to put it," Ralof chuckled darkly. "Ugh. I can't remember the last time I really slept." He massaged his eyes with one hand and then cracked his neck. With one glance at me, as if wondering how freely he ought to speak, he shook his head and launched in. "We were making our way back to Windhelm from—well, the long way around," he cast me an apologetic look. I nodded my understanding so he continued, "But the Imperials caught us at Darkwater Crossing, or thereabouts. Hmph. It was like they knew _exactly_ where we'd be—which was just what Jarl Ulfric was hoping wouldn't happen. We got to Helgen this morning. I really thought we were done for."

"Here," Gerdur interrupted, bringing a bowl of water and a cloth, "Let's get your face looked to, hm?" She sat down beside me and began to gently buff away the blood, sweat and filth disfiguring my skin as if expecting to find injuries beneath the coating. "Imperial cowards," she added in response to Ralof's comment.

From the pain of her gentle touch, I could tell I was badly bruised.

"Of course they wouldn't dare give Jarl Ulfric or anyone a fair trial. Miss Ashlynn wasn't with us, just taken with us. Got behind our group somehow and when the Imperials jumped out and started attacking…" He shrugged to indicate the fallout.

"What's a girl _supposed_ to do, I wonder?" Gerdur asked sourly.

"They had her already on the block—they'd already decided to lump her in with the rest of us, and sassing the Thalmor hadn't helped her any." He smirked when he said it, as though the memory was one he'd like to hang onto.

I shrugged. It seemed the thing to do at the time. By now I could feel aches and pains I hadn't been aware of because the situation was so unstable. Now, I began to wonder what my poor skin looked like; the lighting burns that Thalmor bastard gave me were beginning to hurt.

"Then, out of nowhere, a dragon attacked… "

"Yes, we saw him," Hod said heavily.

That's Skyrim: if whatever bad thing it is doesn't descend on you, most of the village sticks to its day-to-day routine.

"Unbelievable," Gerdur sighed, shaking her head as she crossed her arms protectively across her chest.

Ralof snorted humorlessly. "I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there. As strange as it sounds, we'd be dead if not for that monster. In the confusion, we managed to slip away." Ralof paused, chewing his lip. "…are we really the first to make it to Riverwood?"

Gerdur nodded. "No one else has come through town today. As far as I know, at least."

I put my hand on the bench, not being able to reach Ralof's shoulder. "I'm sure your Jarl is alright."

Ralof nodded his appreciation for the sentiment. "I was hoping—" Ralof trailed off, looking from Gerdur to me.

"Of course you can," Gerdur filled in. "Both of you."

I got to my feet. "I should continue on to Whiterun."

"Looking like someone tried to murder you?" Gerdur asked dryly. "You need a bath and clean clothes before you go anywhere. Looking like you do, you'll pass out halfway there. A lot of help you'll be then."

It took effort not to be offended by this low estimate of my constitution… but who knew? Maybe she had a point.

Hod disappeared into another room and returned a few moments later with a stack of clothes—and a generous cake of soap—which he handed to Ralof. "Go take a swim, lad," he advised.

-L-

Gerdur proved impossible to put off, so I did what I could to help. That is to say, once I'd bathed and accepted the loan of one of Gerdur's dresses, I did as much as she would let me to help about the house. I needed the work to keep my mind from trying to shut down; I was tired, exhausted even, but I simply couldn't seem to compose myself for sleep.

The lightning spell left me with a curious network of burns which, while tender, could have been worse. My left cheekbone was bruised, nearly black with it, and I had an assortment of minor bruises and scratches I couldn't account for.

Ralof, that lucky fellow, took his swim and went straight to bed. Bam. Out like a candle after suggesting I ought to, maybe, consider it myself. It was… sweet… of him to worry.

Fortunately, most of the work was the sort I could do and do without thinking very hard: Hod had looked to the poor horse, but I could wash laundry by the river (as Gerdur had loaned me a dress until I could get my own clothes washed, I went over the house, grabbed anything that looked dirty, and I went down to the waterside), helping with supper, general cleaning and the like.

Gerdur owned and operated—with the help of her husband—the mill around which Riverwood centered.

Once I'd done all I could around the house, I stepped out to the Riverwood Trader, the town's general store, and introduced myself to the owners, Lucan and Camilla. It never hurts to forge connections, even in a small town. Or maybe I just needed the normalcy of doing what I do for a living.

I also needed to think about the future. The Legion took my purse and my weapons when they captured me. They did not, however, take everything I had. My father insisted that trinkets easy to convert into money were necessary for any traveler. Thus, both Lucinda and I kept a small assortment of treasures on our persons in case we ended up in a position where money was needed.

I was glad of the precaution now.

The Riverwood Trader was a small shop and not used to handling jewels. However, I'm good at haggling and I only needed to make sure I could get to Whiterun. Once in Whiterun, I could speak to Belethor (not a prospect I relished), Adrianne, or even Fralia Grey-Mane to convert a few other items.

I met Ralof coming out of Gerdur's home as I was going back in. "Hello," I greeted him with a smile that felt too artificial.

He gave me a skeptical look then wiped it off his face. "Been busy, then?" he asked.

"Yes. It's good for me. I'm not… I don't think I can sleep just yet. You understand." I don't think he did, but he pretended to.

"Of course. I… don't suppose you'd like to go for a walk?" he asked, running a hand through his hair. He hadn't braided that one side back and it kept swinging into his face every few moments. It was oddly tempting to try to tuck that erring lock behind his ear, but seeing as it would be overly familiar and that he was having no luck with that himself… well.

"Of course. Let me put these things away." I was out of things to do, otherwise, and it was a nice day. It gets cold in Solitude earlier in the year than in most other places because we're so far north.

So Ralof and I walked and made small talk. Apparently he was something of a woodworker who ran off to join the Stormcloaks. He spared me most of the Stormcloak line, though I had the impression that—for him—the world fell into the categories of 'the Empire' and 'Us.' Quite a broader view than most Stormcloaks are said to have. In fact, since he wasn't wearing anything like his uniform, if I hadn't known him for a Stormcloak I wouldn't have guessed.

He was not well-traveled, nor had he ever been out of the Province. I served in my Father's business—with a two year furlough to serve with the army—since I was sixteen. Father has had to leave Skyrim on a number of occasions and often took Lucinda and/or me with him, if only so we could see that there really was a world beyond Skyrim. It was nice to have someone to discuss those old, peaceable days with.

It was somewhat to my relief that he did not ask about my sister. Every time she came up—in speech or thought—all I could see was that blonde corpse in the bowels of Helgen Keep. Every time I saw that blonde corpse in the bowels of Helgen Keep I saw those two Thalmor fall with arrows sticking out of them.

I still felt nothing. They were gone and it didn't really matter. It was as if they'd been straw-stuffed dummies rather than people. Worse still, I felt, was the detached feeling I had for the others who'd died, Stormcloak, Imperial, Brendan… all of them. It was as if their deaths happened but didn't touch me. I wished many of them hadn't died… but they had and there was nothing I could do about it.

It was a coldness that should have frightened me, except that it didn't. I was taught, growing up, that contrary to what I may observe, life was not cheap.

"Leandra?"

"Hm?" I blinked, realizing we'd completed our second or third lap around the village. "I'm sorry, I drifted off."

"I asked if you were planning to go straight back to Solitude after we reach Whiterun tomorrow," Ralof prompted patiently.

"Yes. My parents will be expecting me. Perhaps they will know how to fix things back home so I don't have too much trouble over Helgen." He had made it clear he intended to head up to Whiterun himself before striking off for Windhelm. I could not quite get rid of the notion that this was partly to make sure I got there alright. I didn't feel anything about the idea either way, really.

"I hope so. That was a bad bit of luck."

That, my friend, is the understatement of the year.


	5. Chapter 5

Looked over by the awesome 16DarkMidnight80.

-L-

I left my copper and amber hair net to Gerdur with a note. I had to leave it somewhere she would find it after I was gone or she'd never have accepted it, but I felt something more than a little household work was needed to thank her for her hospitality.

She could keep it or convert it into money as she liked. I wouldn't be offended if she did, though I didn't actually say this.

Ralof and I left Riverwood at the crack of dawn. I was tired and, since we were mounted with Ralof riding behind again, I gave him the reins and dozed vaguely. The night passed badly for me, full of nightmares I didn't remember upon waking, which I did often.

It took us about two and a half hours or so to reach Whiterun. The horse was immediately placed in the stables where the redhead could find him—and I described her for the stable-hand so that he would know who to look for. With that, a glad-to-be-on-foot Ralof and I walked into Whiterun.

I felt strangely like a ghost as I walked up the sunny thoroughfare, waving to Adrianne, nodding to Fralia—who looked worried and grim, which was unusual for her—and making our way up to Dragonsreach.

The Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater, took our explanations with a grim expression. Apparently the redhead, Bellona, had arrived the day before and not only brought word of the events we did, but also had taken part in a dragon-hunting party.

I shuddered at the thought. Fighting dragons doesn't seem like my kind of 'adventure.' Nevertheless, we were thanked and the Jarl promised that a detachment would be sent to Riverwood. A Jarl must protect his Hold, and it doesn't hurt that Riverwood is a nearby settlement. Even more, it would be possible to send a few men to Helgen—or what's left of it—if they're in Riverwood, which is a hop, skip, and jump away.

I approved the efficiency.

"Well, that's that," Ralof noted as we walked out of Dragonsreach and into the sun.

"Will you be going on today, then?" I asked. It was a stupid question: it's too early in the day _not_ to go on.

"Yes. I'm afraid I have to," he answered.

I blinked. Was that… regret… in his tone? I looked over at him and found him watching the clouds or the horizon or something. Somewhere vaguely in the distance ahead of us, at least. "I see. Then I wish you a safe journey. Here," I pulled a piece of paper I'd written out the day before in Gerdur's home. "This is a promissory note and a list of people who can get in contact with me. Give them the note and whatever equipment or-or whatever you need and I'll see that it gets to you. You never know, right?" I stopped talking, aware that my words were crunching together and piling up.

I don't like to feel that I owe someone anything. The thing that off-balanced me so badly was Ralof's bemused expression and the dubious look he cast the paper I held out to him.

"Keep it," he answered with a bemused smile, as though maybe I was performing some strange Solitude custom.

"Please?"

It was almost amusing to watch him argue with himself. Finally, he acquiesced, took the paper and stuffed it in a pocket.

I winced. Nice way to treat someone's gratitude, especially if my father ever found out I was giving such a note to a Stormcloak.

Ralof cleared his throat and jumped into a new vein of thought without warning. "Or, you know, there's a divergence in the roads in the eastern Pale. One goes off for Dawnstar and the other for… where I'm going,"

Whiterun is a neutral hold. Supposedly either faction—Stormcloaks or the Imperial Legion—can come or go as long as they don't cause trouble. Still, it was probably best not to air one's views too loudly. The priest of Talos down before Jorrvaskr did that well enough for six or eight people.

I blinked at this, brow furrowing. I was about to ask him why he should bother, as it would be faster for him to return to Windhelm and join his Jarl if he traveled alone, but Fralia's shrill voice dragged my attention away.

"Nothing? And what of my son? What of Thorald? Is _he_ nothing?" Fralia demanded. She had moved away from her usual stall and seemed to have accosted the person she was snarling at. It would have been funny, seeing the tiny, withered woman snarling at this big, strapping Nord… and I won't say he didn't look a little intimidated.

"Wait a moment," I breathed, putting a hand on Ralof's arm before hurrying over to hear the conversation. I knew the man to whom Fralia was speaking—Olfrid Battle-Born, a well-to-do member of Whiterun's upper class—and I also knew the name of one of Fralia's sons. She likes to talk about her boys; when two merchants chat or haggle there's usually gossip or banal conversation.

"Don't you talk to _me_ about suffering," Fralia ended in a tone that only an angry mother could level at someone. The kind of tone that says 'back off or I'll scratch your eyes out.' "I will _never_ accept his death. My son still lives, I can _feel_ it!"

At this point, Olfrid rolled his eyes… although he'd been observed to back up at that angry mother tone.

"So tell me, Olfrid, where is he? Where are you holding my son?"

By now many people had turned to look at Fralia. Tears glittered in her eyes and her withered hands looked unusually gnarled and blanched as she balled them into fists.

Olfrid, aware of the attention Fralia was attracting gave a forced laugh, "Do you believe this old hag?"

Something in my mind popped. Maybe it was the idea of someone else disappearing, perhaps killed or held somewhere without the proper forms for such things having been obeyed. Perhaps I simply wasn't in the mood to listen to someone run his mouth to someone I care about. Or maybe, below the shock and calm, I was just pissed off and needed a reason to let it come to the surface.

"One should show more respect for age, Master Battle-Born," I answered simply, moving to stand beside Fralia. "Personal attacks are usually the first form of evading a question."

Olfrid looked down his nose at me. "Very well, then—though you insert yourself into an affair in which you have no place. I bow before your argument and shall answer bluntly and at once: I have young Thorald, of course. He's in my cellar, right this moment, keeping company with the rats. My prisoner."

"The second form being sarcasm," I responded dryly with withering disdain. "Why would you need two forms of evasion—and in succession—I wonder?"

I received an ugly look for this, and was aware of Ralof moving to stand by my shoulder. I know he did because Olfrid's attention moved past Fralia and me, the lines in his face growing grimmer.

"Face it cow—and _you_!" he added spitefully to Fralia (me being the cow, obviously). "Your stupid son is dead. He died a Stormcloak traitor—"

Oh. I forgot, for a moment, that her boys ran off to join the Stormcloaks. I knew the family was comprised of sympathizers, of course, but I'd forgotten—or allowed myself to forget—that one of the boys joined up. Or was it both? I used to know…

…didn't I?

This mention of his beloved movement, of course, was enough to invest Ralof's interests in the matter. He might have said something had Olfrid not run over him.

"And you… you had best keep your mouth shut before you suffer the same," Olfrid ended on a growl, glaring from me to Ralof and back.

"Form three, threats to ensure silence," I noted in the coolly austere tone I know irritates anyone I use it on. It's too polite to argue with but thoroughly annoying, a snub that can't be answered without one seeming boorish.

"If only his manner was as nice as his clothes," Ralof noted grimly. "In Riverwood mothers wash their boys' mouths out for talking like that to a lady—more particularly an elderly lady. You'd think standards for behavior in Whiterun would be higher."

Olfrid looked ready to escalate the conversation but never got the chance.

"Father, come now," one of the younger lads of the family hurried up, casting me a 'please don't draw this out' sort of look. "There's nothing more to be said here, really."

Olfrid let the lad lead him off, and Fralia, tears in her eyes, lips white as chalk, went back to her stall. "Hello, Leandra, dear," she said as I moved over to join her. "I-I didn't know you had a young man."

It was a logical conclusion to jump to, of course. "This is Ralof of Riverwood—we've been companions of the road," I answered evenly.

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Ralof chipped in immediately.

"Ralof, this is Fralia Grey-Mane—"

"Not Avulstein's mother?" Ralof interrupted, looking surprised.

Fralia blinked back at him. "We shouldn't discuss this in public," she said softly. She glanced around, then sighed. "Come back to the house with me. We'll discuss it there."

I felt a creep of unease, but I followed her anyway. I ought to just turn around and leave as a matter of principle…

…but I know what it is to have someone disappear with no explanation. I couldn't just walk away.

-L-

"Mother, what's the—"

"Avulstein!" Ralof called, sounding happier than I'd ever heard him.

"Ralof?" Avulstein sputtered, his expression widening in surprise, then into intense pleasure at seeing a fellow.

I glanced at Fralia as the two men marched up to one another and exchanged a one-armed kind of hug and handshake thing. I think it was supposed to be a hug, anyway. It might have been a strange stranglehold.

"What are you doing here?" Avulstein demanded, sounding relieved and enthused.

"Long story. I was going to see the lady as far as I could before heading back to Windhelm. Have you heard?" Ralof asked anxiously.

Fralia listened intently as Ralof recapped the story of the past few days, slipping her wither arm through mine reassuringly as how I got caught up in things was explained, patting my shoulder in the soothing way mothers have.

"And you?" Ralof asked.

"Came into town to resupply and heard about Thorald; there's nothing much to say, except he was operating in the area and then…" Avulstein made a sort of whistle, "disappeared. No clues, nothing." Avulstein glanced at Fralia, as if he didn't want to say too much and, thus, distress his mother any further.

She planted her free fist on her hip as if daring him to try to sugar-coat the situation for her. I'll say this for Fralia, she's a tough woman. Her lads are tough, themselves, for a reason.

"And her?" Avulstein asked in the tone of someone asking what my plans were… and whether I was plotting something underhanded and anti-Stormcloak.

"I'm not spying for the Empire, if that's what you're asking," I answered. "Fralia is my friend, whatever _your_ politics. She was in distress so I made it my business to find out why."

"And whose business are you going to make our business—"

"Avulstein." Fralia's sharp tone made the man desist.

I glared at him. This attitude from a man hiding in his mother's house? Though, I suppose I shouldn't jump to conclusions: Fralia might be having a motherly moment and might not permit him to leave 'until it's safe.' A good son would obey, I suppose.

"Excuse Avulstein," Ralof interceded dryly. "He's like that to everyone—often to his own detriment."

"I am not!" Avulstein barked, looking appalled that Ralof should say such a thing.

"Are we remembering the same incident at—"

"Alright, alright—but it wasn't _my_ fault."

"I'm pretty sure it wasn't Thorald's."

Avulstein waved him to desist then, after moment of grim chagrin, grinned wryly. "Apologies Miss… Ashlynn, was it?"

"Accepted," I answered simply.

"As for Thorald… they say he died, but I don't believe it," Avulstein declared. "Those damned Imperials have him and the Battle-Borns know where. They're the biggest Imperial boot-lickers in Whiterun."

I frowned at this, wondering if someone, somewhere, might have a record of Lucinda.

"I know what you're thinking—" Avulstein began.

"You have _no concept_ of what I'm thinking," I answered in a tone so cold that Avulstein physically backed away. "Perhaps you should let your mother speak."

Fralia looked at me, her eyes tired and red around the rims with weeping or wakefulness. "I have to find my son, Leandra. Surely you would allow me that… and allow me to ask you to help. Just help me _find_ him."

I closed my eyes. Her words mirrored what my own mother would be saying just now. _If there is any clue as to where Lucinda is_ please _, help me find it._ "Of course, Fralia," I answered softly. "What are friends for?"

I think the only person not surprised by this gentle, ready, and matter of fact acquiescence was me.

-L-

"You don't have the look of a sneak-thief," Avulstein noted when I held up the fruits of my first act of major larceny and handed them to Fralia.

"You don't have the look of a well-mannered man. I guess appearances aren't always deceiving," I shot back cuttingly.

"Enough, both of you," Fralia said briskly as she put the book down on the table and opened it to the page I'd dog-eared for her.

I'd never tried breaking-and-entering, but I had this time, for her. I wondered what that meant in terms of my own beliefs and politics… but I found I didn't care. I saw too much of my mother in Fralia's lined face and red eyes.

I couldn't walk away. I wouldn't want anyone to walk away from my mother, not in a case like this. The difference is, of course, that Lucinda was no kind of combatant, in no way involved with the Civil War in any way the Thalmor could fault her.

As far as the thievery and getting into the house, it had been distressingly easy. I wasn't sure what to think about that: was it easy because I was unexpectedly sneaky or was it easy because it's a trap?

"Oh no," Fralia's voice quavered. The book tumbled from her suddenly limp hand.

I picked the book up off the floor, found the page, and read aloud. "'It is my duty to inform you that Thalmor agents have taken possession of the prisoner and have escorted him to Northwatch Keep.' It's signed by General Tullius. He seems very insistent that inquiries into the matter cease."

That's risky, official operations like this in Whiterun. And when this is missed, it's best if I and certain others aren't here. Of course… it's also good for him who penned it for others not to be acquainted with the contents. This piece, at least. I didn't pay much attention to what else was in there, anything irrelevant to my current questions.

Ralof brought chair over for Fralia, who looked ready to collapse, and ushered her into it. Not for the first time I remarked his unswervingly old-fashioned gallantry. It was sweet, really, particularly because he seemed to have a good sense of when to employ it and when to let the lady handle her own business.

It was a little flattering and a great deal more ingenuous than with some gentlemen I know.

"We have to get him back," Avulstein ground out.

"We will," Ralof agreed. "Do you think you can find anyone here to come with us?"

I lost track of the plans—I had no more notion where Northwatch Keep was than they did, but given Avulstein's attitude it was unlikely he would ever find out. The man can't talk to people. But I can. And if Northwatch Keep is where Thalmor might stick their prisoners…

"I'll go. I'll help."

"You will _not_!" Fralia exclaimed, springing out of her chair.

"You can go with us until we're close enough to Solitude for you to—" Ralof began, looking shocked and a little disturbed—probably by my tone.

"How are you going to _find_ the place? Let _him_ shake down every inn you pass by?" I demanded sharply. "You'll be looking from now until this time next year but for lucky chance. A lot of good that will do Thorald or Fralia."

Ralof looked surprised to have the ire pointed in his direction, then he scowled as he answered defensively. "You're not one of us. You said it yourself."

"No, but I have to do this," I answered, trying to sound calm.

"I won't have some Imperial—" Ralof began, his tone hinting this might be more placation or 'don't harm yourself over this' rather than criticism of my political leanings.

"My people have been in Skyrim as long as yours," I snapped, retrieving the piece of paper I carried in my bodice: it being the letter from my mother. "So don't give me that 'true whatever of Skyrim' claptrap! I _have_ to go," I held out the letter in one shaking hand to Ralof, aware of tears edging my eyes.

Ralof took the paper as though he thought it might explode or bite him. He read it over once. When he looked at me again, his expression was pained, his clear grey eyes softened by the most genuine of sympathies. "I didn't know."

"How could you have?" I asked, gentling my tone. "I have to go. Please."

Ralof looked at the letter again, then at me. Then, he spoke to Avulstein in a tone that clearly said he couldn't deny me this. "The Thalmor have her sister. She might be at Northwatch Keep."

Avulstein looked as though he'd taken a war-hammer to the face.

"Not-not Lucinda?" Fralia asked, horrified, putting a hand on my arm as if to comfort me.

I nodded once, pressing my lips together. The tears I had managed to avoid since receiving the letter, which Ralof refolded and handed back to me, threatened to overwhelm me finally and at last. "I'm a good shot with a bow and people will talk to me if I talk to them," I said in the most level tone I could manage. "But if she's there… if she _might_ be there… I can't _not_ go."

Ralof looked at Avulstein, who didn't seem to see it. The Nord's eyes, previously narrowed with mistrust and dislike-on-principle, had lost some of their narrowness. "No, of course you can't." Then, looking uncomfortable, "Pardon my harsh words, Miss."

"I hold you pardoned. Call me Leandra."


	6. Chapter 6

Gone over by the awesome 16DarkMidnight80, without whom there would be far more typos.

-L-

Northwatch Keep proved to be on the far north-west coast of the Sea of Ghosts. My father used to say that all information is somewhere, it's just a manner of backtracking through people to find it. In the end, it was a chatty barmaid who was making eyes at an increasingly uncomfortable Ralof (who kept scooting closer to me as though it might deter the girl) and a bard who liked creepy stories who helped us pinpoint its location.

Without their Stormcloak identifiers (and without shouting about their political affiliations), Avulstein, Ralof, and Avulstein's friend—Vidrald and Geirlund—looked like any other Nords in Skyrim. I was known in Dragon Bridge and claimed they were simply extra security—locals I picked up in Whiterun to get me back to Solitude. Having rumors of dragons hadn't hurt my panning for information, either, since it distracted from my heavy security (and what I might be carrying that warranted it) and was also the kind of thing people like to have a mug in hand while listening to. And, in a Skyrim tavern, a mug in the hand is fresh mead on the way, as the barmen say.

Vidrald was trained to the bow, like I was, quiet and grim. I found myself in an easy sort of camaraderie with him, perhaps because neither of us was much for speech.

Ralof was not exactly talkative by this point, but he didn't like silence. Fortunately, neither did Avulstein. So they talked and Geirlund kept Avulstein from talking too much. Geirlund was thoroughly disapproving of my participation: I wasn't a soldier, I wasn't a Stormcloak, and I was a _girl_.

Ralof jumped on him for that one (or maybe he was just tired of the grumbled protests), pointing out with increasing irritation that that until he, Geirlund, spat in a Thalmor's face and lived to tell about it, he should keep his gob _shut_. Until he took down two witch-elves with three arrows in a tight area, he should keep his gob _shut_. And until he saved Ulfric Stormcloak's life (I didn't argue this though I might have) he should keep his gob decidedly _shut._

Avulstein backed Ralof, noting that as someone who'd faced a dragon before, he might not want to antagonize me overly much in case we ran into another one. 'Where there's one, there's more' is a wise philosophy when it comes to a monster the size of a house who likes to watch people scurry and scream as it burns their cities down.

It was Vidrald who explained Geirlund's bad attitude, which he did the first chance he had: Geirlund had lost a sister (plus a brother and an uncle) recently to a bandit attack. The wound wasn't closed and apparently he was foisting some of his issues onto me. It was not that I was incapable: he just didn't want to see a girl cut down so close to losing his sister. When I asked him to, Vidrald agreed to inform Geirlund why I was there—Lucinda's fate had not been discussed. Since I didn't mention her, Ralof and Avulstein had not mentioned her, either.

I was grateful to them for that. It wasn't a pleasant topic and each revisiting of it was more and more unpleasant than the time before.

After that, Geirlund and I had no more problems. We weren't friendly but we didn't chafe one another, which was probably more important.

It took us seven days, from the moment I found the original reference to Northwatch Keep in Whiterun to the moment we stood out of sight of the keep's sentries. Three days of travel, four days of planning—and it hurt, every day that we had to wait, reconnoitering, making notes, watching patterns. It would have been so easy to just run in there, weapons drawn, shouting and raging.

Unfortunately, then we'd be dead or captured and our loved ones would still be dead or captured, too.

I don't know how Avulstein felt, but I felt like I was peeling layers off my soul—the way skin on one's feet sometimes comes off in strips until the strips go too deep and leave you bloody; and, as in that scenario, I couldn't stop peeling. All I could do was let the hatred fill me up… and pray that this delay meant saving her. I didn't think I could live with myself if I arrived too little too late.

And, of course, I couldn't convince myself she _wasn't_ here. With only this place as a possible location for her, she couldn't _not_ be here—especially when we were so close to Solitude.

There were five of us, but the keep itself was not very large, relatively speaking. There were probably more prisoners than captors, though because we were dealing with—the balance of probability was—Altmer mages, my and Geirlund's bows would be invaluable.

We were waiting for the time exactly between shift changes in the early morning hours, just after midnight. The Mer were nothing if not like clockwork. It didn't matter that the Hearthfire nights were cold—and I think it brought me up in people's estimations when I neither complained about anything nor made idle wishes about changes in our situation.

The mission was Avulstein's to lead, and I was content to be supportive.

"Once we're in, we find Thorald," Avulstein whispered as we waited. "Leandra—what's your sister look like?"

I was so shocked he'd brought it up that I couldn't think. Fortunately, I didn't have to think. "Like me. We're twins. Nearly identical."

"Keep your eyes peeled for another Leandra, then," Avulstein said. "Let's get our people out of there."

"Thank you," I breathed to Avulstein as he moved past me.

I got a 'hmm' in response, which I took to mean 'you're welcome.'

It might be Avulstein's mission, but I'd found myself playing a fair role in the planning.

There were two ways into Northwatch Keep, the South Entrance where Avulstein, Ralof and Geirlund were to wait, and the North Entrance which faced in the direction of the sea and which Vidrald and I would use. Guards were in fewer number at this time of night, and the Altmer hated the cold. Coming from the Summerset Isles, far to the south, this was hardly surprising. It was useful, however.

Also useful was the fact that this isn't the kind of place people go looking for. They might be Thalmor, but they were lax. It showed in the way they paced the walls as though they sought to keep warm rather than keep watch and only paid an occasional glance to the world around them and only with any real interest on the south side—the side that looked into the woodlands.

It helps being a people person when planning an assault. Especially when you're four against an unknown number. We guessed a minimum of twenty-six people: four shifts of six guards (all armed with bows and swords, four stationary and two walking a circuit around the walls), plus a headman and his lieutenant. We had no idea of the maximum, though given the size of the building probably not double that number. I would put it closer to thirty-five at least than fifty-two at most.

Fortunately, at this time, most of these elves would be sound asleep, meaning that if we could keep the clamor to a minimum and keep anyone from hitting any emergency bells, we could sneak in unnoticed. Four on six were not terrible odds, especially since we planned to catch them in a pincer maneuver.

The North Gate, as I said, was not well-attended. It was, in fact, unlocked—I discovered it one cloudy night when testing my theory that the elves were so complacent—Thalmor though they were—that they didn't bother with _night eye_ or _detect life_ to aid their observations.

I was right.

It was lucky I decided to test this theory, since it let me get up to the North Gate for a look. Imagine my surprise when, during my inspections, I discovered that the door was not actually locked. The hinges were rusty and would make Mehrunes Dagon's own racket if used, but the door was unlocked.

This was easily solved to be exploited: a little grease applied to all the hinges over the course of two cloudy nights left them ready—as far as I could tell—to open reasonably quietly. Unnoticed even, if the elves had something else to think about.

Our plan, then, was simple. Vidrald and I would make our way stealthily to the North Gate—or, rather, Avulstein, Ralof and Geirlund would give us ten minutes to get there. Then Avulstein, Ralof and Geirlund would sneak (and sprint if they had to) to the South Gate. The Altmer would come pouring out to see what the ruckus was—three crazy barbarians? There would _have_ to be something going on, according to the mind of a suspicious person.

Avulstein, Ralof and Geirlund were right on time with their attack. I thought it was longer than ten minutes, but I certainly heard the racket they made. The idea was for them to get as close to the gate as they could, so the archers on the walls would have to come down and switch to melee weapons.

Vidrald took hold of the heavy handle on the door, lifting it as he pushed inwards. The door opened silently on its newly greased hinges. He stopped when the opening was wide enough for us to slip in.

Our job was simple: take out anything remaining on the walls from behind—because all attention would have to be focused on this unusual disturbance.

They left three sentries topside.

Vidrald and I moved into the compound until it hurt—that is, until the fear of being heard or otherwise noticed became too great—before picking off the endmost sentries first. The middle sentry, who turned to see what had happened, took two arrows to the chest, sending him over the edge and into the fray on the other side.

Light from the torches within the Keep's courtyard glittered on the golden armor of the elves, making them good targets. Unfortunately, with Avulstein, Ralof and Geirlund in the fray, anyone would be hesitant to shoot.

To my surprise, my nerves had quieted, and I found my mind strangely clear as I took aim and sent arrow after arrow into the turned backs of the elves who were only just realizing they were caught between two forces.

"Damn, girl!" was all Avulstein said as he joined Vidrald and I in the courtyard. He clapped me hard on the shoulder, which I took as Stormcloak for 'great job! You really nailed it!'

"Supply?" Ralof breathed as he passed, face flushed with exertion. He alone knew what I'd done in the Imperial Army, as it had come up while we'd been walking and talking in Riverwood. He'd served his stint too, but as a ground-pounder. Apparently he spent far too much time polishing armor and sharpening swords since real fighting was scarce.

"Yes," I breathed back. The door into the Keep was not locked—why would it be? After all, _no one_ who didn't belongcould have _possibly_ have gotten into the courtyard. I had to admit that if these were Thalmor then the question of how they won the Great War was begged.

Avulstein opened the door, allowing me and then Vidrald to go in first. The melee fighters followed, struggling to keep to their promise not to step in any buckets or trip over any bottles. The warnings and admonition against these clumsy actions had been made in a joking fashion, but now that the plan was moving along—and doing so quite well—they were taken quite seriously.

We did find a few Thamor wandering around—the night watch, I suppose. However, we only found them in the single or as part of a twosome, which meant that as long as Vidrald and I were accurate—and he was—then we had no trouble picking them off before they realized they had problems in their keep.

The, on the other hand, barracks turned out to be a sack of wet cats. There were about twelve elves in there, all sound asleep. With four of us, there was no way we could kill them all before the others woke up—and just walking past them, unseen and unheard, was not an option. I wasn't about to let them stay healthy and out of sight. Under no circumstances.

Fortunately, Avulstein's overarching plan of 'we kill every Thamor between us and Thorald' accorded well with my prudence.

"Mages?" Avulstein whispered.

I held up a hand, then shook my head. I couldn't tell just by looking, more's the pity. "Pick a target," I breathed. "Let Vidrald and I kill ours first and re-target if we can."

I received two pats on the back—confirmation from Ralof and Avulstein—and a nod from Geirlund in my peripheral vision.

Vidrald and I fanned out, while Avulstein, Geirlund and Ralof moved to the closest sleeping elves.

Vidrald and I _did_ get two targets apiece before the noise of Ralof, Geirlund and Avulstein woke the others.

I picked off a third elf before pain seared through me. I knew it by instinct: some elf had caught me with a lightning spell. It was the same as the one the Thalmor at Helgen had used, only stronger and—

It stopped, and I dropped to the ground, twitching and gasping.

I was on my feet again in a second, though as boots and the hems of robes hurried towards me. With a hiss rather than the shout I intended—natural prudence overrode everything else, apparently—I drew the dagger at my hip and rammed it into his chest with a yell as I sprang to my feet. The blade sunk in powered by a strength I would not have expected of myself. The dagger went in right up to the hilt in spite of ribs and muscle. What was more, I grabbed his shoulder, wrenched the weapon loose with a twist, and slammed it in again. Then again.

When the Elf hit the ground, looking shocked, I was sure he was dead. He was dead… and wore such a look of shock, as though he'd seen a ghost, that I couldn't help but feel it in my bones that my sister was _here._

Spells whipped through the air as the Thalmor shouted for reinforcements. "Don't let them backtrack!" I shouted to Geirlund, who gave an 'aye!' and move to block the door through which we'd come.

I abandoned my bow and relied on my dagger. Ralof and Avulstein—the one with his longsword and the other with a massive warhammer that weighed at least as much as I do—were the centers of attention. It was not that difficult for Vidrald (out of reach) to pick them off or for me to sneak up behind and slit an unsuspecting throat before slamming the dagger into the next-nearest target's chest or back.

We cleared out a total of sixteen elves—the twelve sleepers and four who came running to reinforce them. Blood was everywhere, battered bodies with broken bones. The sight should have made me absolutely sick—Vidrald certainly looked a bit pale and Avulstein was trying not to look at all the corpses or the gore on the floor.

I found I didn't care, that I was looking at something that had gone right in the world. Even the thick smell of blood hanging in the air didn't trouble me.

"How many is that?" Avulstein panted.

…six on the walls, six in the halls, sixteen in here… hn. We're doing quite well for ourselves, all things considered.

"Twenty-eight!" Ralof answered promptly.

"They get you bad?" Vidrald asked, putting a big hand on my shoulder—but gently, as he didn't know how badly hurt I was.

I inspected the burns on my hands, as if I'd run into a net of pale pink dye. They hurt a little, but were not the worst burns I'd ever suffered. I'm sure I'll feel them later, though. But they're worth it. She's _here_. "No."

Vidrald smelled it first, putting up a hand to stop me as we approached a hallway after a flight of stairs that took us down. I held up my hand to stop Ralof and Avulstein. "Blood."

I nodded, once I caught the copper tang—I didn't actually catch it, either, just realized that the smell of blood from the barracks would probably not have spread this far. Thus, what I smelled was from a new source… although I suppose it could be the blood on all our boots. My insides tightened. Whose blood?

I nocked an arrow to my bow, glanced at Vidrald, then nodded. We moved forward steadily, stealthily.

I would never have believed I could be so stealthy, but results speak the truth of a thing: I was a soft-footed unobtrusive person when I hunkered down and kept my mouth shut.

The room smelled like blood because it was full of corpses, all of them stacked up like so many bolts of ugly cloth. Instruments of torture were everywhere, from basic holding cages or manacles, to blades, pokers, brands, yankers, pullers, things I didn't recognize and didn't _want_ to recognize.

"I want a word with the ugly one," I growled. There were only the two of them and we had to be getting close to the end of the complex. My arrow took the more senior-looking elf—his clothes were more elaborate and had more gore on them—in the chest. His aid turned only to find himself with an arrow sticking from one shoulder and me tackling him to the ground. I grabbed the shaft in one hand and my dagger in the other.

"Y-You!" he breathed around gasps of pain.

"Where. Is. My. Sister?" I snarled, twisting the shaft so the arrowhead turned.

He whined, face blanching, but what was his pain to me, given where I found him?

"Where. Is. She?" I growled, the words guttural and deep in my throat, my face twitching uncontrollably.

His eyes drifted to the bank of corpses as he gasped for breath. Clearly someone has a low tolerance for his own pain.

"Are you _quite_ certain?" I asked, bringing our faces close together.

I'd never seen someone look so terrified. His pupils pinpointed, little black specks drowning in a sea of gold and too much white.

The elf whimpered as I twisted the shaft again. "I asked you something."

"Yes," he managed around the pain. "Please—"

I didn't answer, not with words. I brought my dagger down so hard and so fast that I had to work it loose, the tip having stuck in the stonework beneath the elf.

How many times did my sister say please? How many times did she beg for mercy? Why should I take any more pity on you than you did on her?

I only needed the one blow to finish him. I turned and looked at the corpses. "Go! Find Thorald!" I said, my voice strangely calm given the ringing in my head.

She was dead. They'd killed her before I got here.

I stepped over the body of the elf and began pawing through the corpses of the dead. All of them were dressed the same, in loose-fitted, thin, meager undyed linen garments. Most of them were bloodstained. All the bodies had been mutilated in some way, cuts. Burns. Bruises.

Why? Why my sister—

I screamed.

I screamed and I screamed and I screamed until I was dragged back, away from the wall of corpses.

Maybe I screamed my sister's name.

Maybe I screamed in my head.

Maybe I screamed out loud and they had killed everyone else and they were coming to kill me like they'd killed her.

Maybe I was the scream.

Maybe I was _her_ scream, her _last_ scream, echoing back to its origin.

"Leandra!"

A sharp blow to the face and the sound stopped. The scream was gone. I'd been screaming out loud and found myself looking up into Ralof's grey eyes. He had my shoulders in his hands and was on the point of shaking me.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his expression relaxing once he was sure he'd shaken me out of my hysterics. "I'm so sorry."

My mouth worked, but I could find no words.

The scream was gone, just as Lucinda was gone.

Why? Why my sister? Faithful devotee to the Eight, loyal subject of the Empire, law-abiding citizen and generally _good_ person.

Why my sister?

I stepped numbly free of Ralof and pulled my sister's corpse from among the rest, not caring what happened to _them_ as long as I could free _her_ from their cold tangle. I knew I was only looking at an empty shell when I regarded her mutilated corpse, but that shell had once housed one of the most beautiful souls I ever knew. And now it was gone. Made to suffer and then sent away.

Tears began to roll down my cheeks as I cradled the decaying husk of my sister. The stench was disgusting, but it was all that was left of her…

"Leandra?" The voice belonged, unexpectedly, to Geirlund, who knelt across from me, a book in one hand. "I know you won't want to hear this but… " He held out the book.

The scream was silent this time, but it was there as I gazed uncomprehendingly at him.

"Look." He offered me the book again, which I took.

There was a single entry of value:

 _Ashlynn, Leandra—suspected Talos worshipper, suspected Stormcloak sympathies._

— _Informant: Silinaire, Endarie._

— _Location of apprehension: en route from Radiant Raiment to Proudspire Manor._

— _Date of apprehension: 7th Hearthfire, 401_

My whole body felt numb as I looked at the damning words. Endarie… set the Thalmor upon Lucinda by setting them on _me_? Why? It doesn't make _sense_.

It doesn't make sense.

But I'll _make_ sense of it!

I tore the page out of the book, folded it, and put it in the inner pocket of my coat. I took the book as well, pinning it under my arm. It was useless… but leaving it with a missing entry would point fingers if the entries could somehow be filled in. One never knows with mages.

"Did you find Avulstein's bother?" I asked, my tone strangely calm as I picked Lucinda's hair away from her brow. She'd been dead for some time, I decided. I couldn't have saved her even if we'd been more precipitous in our planning.

It hurt to think that I was so far from being able to help.

"We did," Avulstein answered.

"Good." For a moment I didn't know what to do.

It was Ralof who shattered the uncertainty. "We should wrap her body. I suppose you'll want to bring her back to Solitude for burial?" he asked gently.

"Yes. Yes, that's right." I got to my feet, looking for… something.

"Leandra?" Ralof continued. "Are you sure this is something you want your parents to see?"

I looked at him as he continued to crouch beside Lucinda's body. "I have to bring her home. I won't let this disappear."

I had the feeling, as the men helped me wrap and bind her body, that Thorald knew something about Lucinda's last days. He held his tongue though, and I didn't ask for details. I can come up with enough ugly scenarios without wanting to hear the real details.

It comforted me that my allies treated her remains as carefully as they might have done for their own sister.

The Thalmor kept horses at Northwatch Keep, so there was no point in not helping ourselves. I had only one goal: get Lucinda out of that Oblivion-hole. The others were more practical. That was why I had the horses saddled and Lucinda's body bent as best I could over the saddlebow of mine. I planned to set the horse loose when I got near to the Solitude Stables and rent one to make the last hour or so of the journey. I had no way of knowing if the Thalmor had a magical way of identifying their own mounts and didn't want to risk it. It was enough that they would know where I went to get her. Whether they could admit to it or not was another matter entirely.


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks to the wonderful 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this! Also, letters in this narrative are placed relative to the date they are posted, not to the date they would be received.

-L-

Ralof, Avulstein, Thorald, Vidrald, and Geirlund parted ways with me where the road split northeast of Rorikstead. They would cut south and east into Hjaalmarch, then into the Pale which was friendly territory for them. If they didn't go bragging about their allegiances, they would be mistaken for just another mercenary band.

I cut north and east; the road is almost a straight shot to Solitude.

As I walked up the long road, having changed horses at Solitude Stables as I planned—Geimund, realizing I had brought Lucinda home, had loaned me the horse rather than renting it to me. I was so tired that I stumbled, but I couldn't just stop. Lucinda's body needed the rights. She needed to be placed the Hall of the Dead… and I shied away from the idea. She didn't belong there, in the old, dark tunnels full of the smells of embalming liquids and incense. She didn't belong there, away from the light and the sun with wilted flowers for company.

They wanted me… and they got her.

As I walked, my parting with Ralof played back in my mind.

 _You could come with us, you know. There's nothing for you, here._

 _I have to take Lucinda home._

 _Yes, but… after. What if one girl isn't as good as another there they're concerned?_

 _I'll manage. Please… don't ask me again._

 _All right. If you change your mind… I'll put in a good word for you. We all will._

 _Goodbye, Ralof._

 _Goodbye. Be safe._

He'd kissed my cheek, then, and it had looked as though he never decided if it was a good idea or not. I'd been surprised, of course, and still wasn't sure what to think. It had been a… sweet… gesture, I suppose. And, since it had been only upon my cheek and he had caught his fellows up immediately after I could hardly complain. I could admit to have grown used to the company of these Stormcloaks—or, in the case of Vidrald and Geirlund, soon-to-be-Stormcloaks—which meant that traveling alone except for Lucinda was strange.

At my hip bumped a little bag of coin, my 'share' of the spoils of Northwatch Keep. Septims have no name, no proof of ownership as jewels and the like often do. I think that, knowing I would go back to Solitude, they'd taken this into account. Part of me wanted to fling the bag into the Karth River. Part of me wanted to know if the Thalmor's filthy money could do some good in the world.

And all of me wanted to know why Endarie would do such a thing. She was blunt and rude with everyone but I would never have thought her capable of something like this.

The main square was crowded when I arrived, too crowded, really. I understood within seconds, as a sharp girl-child's voice rang above the crowd, almost beside herself. "They can't hurt uncle Roggvir. Tell them he didn't do it!"

I stopped the horse, unable to see the platform that houses the scaffolds. My ears began to ring as the gathered citizenry began to rail at Roggvir. Roggvir is the man known for having allowed Ulfric Stormcloak to escape after killing the High King. That was some time ago, so why are they doing this now?

Or is it because word got out that Ulfric escaped the Legion and the Thalmor? They can't kill the one they want so they'll kill the one they can get to. Don't I know something about that?

My guts began to seethe with acid as I tightened my grip on the horse's bridle.

There were Imperial soldiers everywhere, and I couldn't help but think that the crowd's noise sounded like pandering to the Empire, the way the Empire had bowed to the Thalmor.

"You should tell her that her uncle in scum that betrayed his High King. Best she know now, Addvar."

"Leave be, Vivienne," I growled, loud enough to be heard.

Vivienne—who works at the apothecary, Angeline's Aromatics—looked affronted. Her eyes, however, slid to the too-suggestive burden on my horse then along my bruised and burn-laced face.

An Imperial officer, without identity beneath his helmet, spoke loudly, reading off a piece of paper. "Roggvir of Solitude. You helped Ulfric Stormcloak escape this city after he murdered High King Torygg. By opening that gate for Ulfric you betrayed the people of Solitude."

I once believed that. Now, though… well, having been on the end of an Imperial headsman's axe, having seen the ugly side of the Thalmor… I don't know about Skyrim being better off without the Empire, but I do know everyone would be better off without the Thalmor who, thankfully, weren't present.

"There was no murder!" Roggvir barked over boos, hisses, and declarations that he did not deserve to speak, "Ulfric challenged Torygg. He beat the High King in fair combat. Such is our way! Such is the ancient custom of Skyrim, and all Nords!"

He has a point, even if the crowd didn't agree.

The ringing in my ears was back.

"On this day," Roggvir continued proudly, "I go to Sovngarde."

I swallowed, wondering, as he was pushed down and the headsman swung his axe aloft, if I had gone to my death—as I thought—with that kind of courage.

"Some gate guard you were!" Jala, one of the traders, shouted.

The ringing grew louder, and then—

"They should have drawn it out some more," Taarie sniffed, her voice strangely loud and clear in my head, despite the fact that she spoke in her usual moderated, disdainful tones. "He deserved a slower death."

—it stopped.

-L-

The only reason I was in lockup instead of dead was that I hadn't drawn my knife on Taarie after her ill-timed comment. One moment I'd been fighting back my own emotions and the next I'd been pummeling her face—or whatever I could reach.

I didn't remember much after that first blow, only that my knuckles were bruised and bloody and that the guards who finally dragged me off her—it took four—had all been horrified. I had bruises from them, too, but didn't care.

Lucinda's body had been bruised.

A grate clanged somewhere, and the Captain of the Guard came in. "You've been redeemed. You can go," she said sternly. "If this happens again, you're not going to get off so easily."

I was going to ask if I'd killed Taarie, but my father appeared behind her, looking anxious and a little bit angry. "We're going home. Now," he said darkly, but the arm he put around my shoulders was gentle, as though he knew I acted out of grief rather than malice.

It was good to be home, in a way. Proudspire Manor is a solid building, sturdy, in the affluent part of town. Mother was glad to have me home and within moments the maid who looked after Lucinda and I had a hot bath all ready with the sweet perfumed oils I like best.

Scrubbed, then dressed in my favorite nightgown and dressing gown, I ate the dinner Mother brought for me. I could tell that she and Father wanted to ask me questions, but they refrained.

"Is Lucinda being seen to?" I asked in a small voice, regarding my battered hands and the pale pink network of burns still visible from that Thamor's spell.

"Styrr has taken over her care," Mother answered gently, putting her hand over mine. "I had Lily go to Angeline's and get you something to help you sleep." She produced a vial of clear liquid and poured it into my wine, swirling it around. "Please use it."

I swallowed hard, then took the sedative with shaking fingers. I tossed back the mix, finding the bitter taste under the wine.

"Get some sleep, darling," Mother encouraged.

I was far too old for it, but Mother insisted on tucking me in as though I were a little girl again.

-L-

I screamed in a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. I screamed and she screamed and we screamed together.

I woke up screaming.

She didn't.

-L-

The next day, I related the whole adventure, start to finish, omitting nothing. It was hard in the telling, and I could see it was not a story to my parents' liking. However, one daughter was dead and I was all they had. Rather than discuss it right then, when the news was still fresh—Mother looked as though she hadn't slept at all, her eyes red-rimmed with weeping and want of sleep—Father suggested I take the day off, just… rest.

Without telling anyone where I was going, I took myself off to the Temple of the Divines. I prayed to them when I thought I was going to die—they gave me a second chance. I didn't doubt that Lucinda had prayed to them, time and time again, but she had died. She died and I lived. It seemed so wrong.

As I stood looking at the eight niches with their little shrines, my mind went blank. I couldn't even wonder if there was some big plan that only they knew. All I knew was that my sister was gone, torn out of the world. The one person who deserved to be in it… and she was gone.

And at the end of this logic, I found I didn't really blame the gods at all. I blamed the Thalmor. What were they, anyway? Elves willing to upset the pantheon and for what? Hm? I don't presume to know the will of the Eight, but I can't believe that—

My thoughts stopped as Endarie walked into the temple.

I walked out, lest I finish on her what I started on her sister. All I could think was 'you took my sister away from me! Why? For the love of Stendarrr _why_?!'

There's no malediction strong enough to level at her.

-L-

Things at home were tense when I got back. That I'd left the house, blithe as you please, in the wake of all that had happened had not pleased my parents.

"Leandra, what if they'd been looking for you?" Mother demanded, hugging me far too tightly.

"There's no news coming out of Northwatch. They'd have to investigate first, and that would happen only after they realize there's a sphere of silence over the place," I answered.

"Promise me you won't do it again—just until things cool down. Maybe we can appeal to… someone," Mother looked at Father who nodded.

"Stay inside, Lea. Just for now."

It felt like prison and like any creature caged up against its will all I wanted was to get out.

The first day, I carried my questions silently.

What are we going to do about Lucinda's funeral?

What are we going to do about Endarie?

What are we going to do about these damned Thalmor—witch-elves, the Stormcloaks call them?

Why are you so reluctant to talk about Lucinda?

Is that… reproach… I see in your eyes? For what? For bringing her back or for not being the one to die?

Or is looking at me just a reminder of what's been lost?

What are we going to do about these damned witch-elves?

What are we going to do about the bitch who set Lucinda up?

The second day, I began voicing these insidious questions to Mother. Some of them cut her, some of them made her shush me, and a repeat of any of the latter ended the conversation.

The third day, I started with Father who—out of love or fear—squelched all these questions. He also hinted he was planning to get me out of Haafingar for a while, just until things cooled down. Maybe send me to Hjaalmarch, or Cyrodiil even. Maybe Blacklight in Morrowind? I'd always wanted to go.

All I saw was an attempt to evade and pacify the Imperial Legion or—more accurately—their damned Thalmor handlers. "That doesn't help Lucinda."

The fourth day was Lucinda's funeral proper. I was allowed out for that; mourning clothes and a heavy veil helped obscure my identity, but I resented what it represented.

Lucinda's young man was there, too, and I realized I didn't even know his name. He seemed beyond grief, beyond expression.

It was possibly the worst funeral I'd ever attended in that it couldn't be over soon enough. The forms and traditions seemed to pass with appalling slowness, as if we were sweeping her under the rug.

I stayed behind in the Halls of the Dead for most of the day, just staring at her wrapped body in its niche near where the rest of my family has been buried, generation after generation. It should be me, there, rendered down to bone and muscle, dried out and preserved between sheets of white linen. It should be me there, surrounded by flowers and snowberries. She loved the spicy scent of snowberries so much—I remember her begging Angeline at Angeline's Aromatics to make her a special order of snowberry oil she could use to scent her room.

Tears coursed down my cheeks, though I wasn't really crying. I felt cold, as if her loss had carved out most of my own soul—some people say identical twins (or near enough to) share one. I felt cold, empty, like a stone. I felt strangely lost, knowing that the light that was Lucinda had gone out of the world.

I stood there, hour after hour, staring blankly at Lucinda's body.

Finally Lily, the maid who attended Lucinda and I came to the Halls of the Dead. "Miss? Your parents think you ought to come home now," she offered gently, "it's getting late."

Did it really matter? I'd found nothing more in staring at Lucinda's corpse, tears rolling down my face off and on, than I'd found staring at the shrines to the Eight in the Temple of the Divines. It was as if there were no answers, that it was just a senseless thing perpetrated by mortals and, therefore, the province of mortals to do or not do something about.

That was just how it had to be. People died every day, some of them horrifically. My problem was that I thought my family above that sort of bad luck. My problem was that it wasn't a senseless thing—it had been done, and done with malicious aforethought.

That thought made me wonder, just for a moment: what if…

-L-

(Forwarded to Box of Wonders by Master Hadring, Nightgate Inn, the Pale)

2 Frostfall

To Miss Ashlynn of Solitude,

I'm hoping you receive this in good health. My brothers and I wanted to let you know that we are well and intend to be home in another day or two. They also wish me to pass along their thanks again, for all your help and their condolences over your sister. Rest assured that, once we arrive home, we will offer memorials for her. It's the least we can do.

I don't expect a return of this letter, I merely wish to express my hope that things will get better for you.

If you're ever here, see if we're here. Avulstein owes you a drink—he won't say why.

Sincerely, Ralof

-L-

"You're not eating again," Mother prompted.

It was true, I'd been mutilating my food and shoving it around my plate. I'm sure it hurt her, since she'd had Cook prepare some of my favorites: braided garlic bread, rich stew full of juicy hoarker chunks, salmon steak drowning in butter and the juice of imported citrons, and snowberry crostadas all spicy and tangy-sweet.

Lucinda and I both had loved those, but seeing them, smelling them—I felt nothing. It was just food, food meant to sustain the body. A body I felt half outside of already. What was it to me if it suffered hunger? Had she? Had she lacked such basic things and food and water during her time with _them_?

"I'm sorry, Mother. I'm not really hungry."

"You've barely eaten for the last four days—have a little stew," Father encouraged.

"What are we going to do about Lucinda's murder?" I asked.

"I think a trip to Backlight will be just the thing," Father continued, as though we'd started this conversation and I'd sidetracked it. "It's been awhile and Solitude always pays well for Dunmer goods."

"What are we going to do about Endarie?"

"Don't start this again," Father said wearily. "Please, Lea."

"What? Let it go? Let her go? Pretend it was just bandits or sickness or-or something like that?" I asked, my voice locking up.

"Leandra. I miss her too—" Father began placatingly.

"Missing is one thing. Everyone misses her. I'm asking what we're going to _do._ We're loyal Imperials!" My voice rose to a shout as I stood up and flung the bowl of stew across the room. The bowl hit the wall and cracked, even as the contents spattered everywhere. "We served our term! We'd done nothing to violate any law in any Hold! And what happens? Some bitch with a grudge tries to set _me_ up and gets _her_! We have it in writing!"

"We have a record you're not supposed to have in writing," Father answered, his tone rising. "It proves she was taken under lawful—"

I hissed like an angry cat. "You'll let it slide because it looked _lawful_? Do you hear yourself? This was your daughter!"

Mother stood up as Father did. "Leandra, maybe you should go upstairs—"

"No. No, he needs to answer me. I have never demanded answers or anything else from him but this time he owes me that much!"

No one contested the word 'owes.'

"What do you want me to do, Lea?" he snarled, leaning on the table. "Take a knife and stick it in the heart of every elf I come across?"

" _That_ would be pointless," I answered with the same cutting tone he'd taught me early on. "You always said the system could be worked, one way or another. You're the best I know at working the system! You always said that legal was the way, that it was better to work with the system than against it!" I was shouting again. "You always said that Ulfric's method of affecting change was the wrong one, that it had to be the _proper_ way or change meant nothing at all!"

Silence. At that moment I knew that he had been as guilty of thinking we were above reproach, above being acted against, as I had been. More so, even.

"Well, if that's the _proper_ way then maybe Ulfric has the right idea." I dropped the words into the silence like coins into a wishing well. I don't know if I felt that to be _true_ , per se, but I knew it would provoke something. Hopefully action.

Red suffused my father's face. "And what would a _loyal Imperial_ like you do with the Stormcloaks?"

My mother looked horrified, on the verge of tears.

"I'd find something," I answered mutinously, glaring at him and wondering if I even knew the man to whom I was speaking.

"If all you can think to do in the wake of your sister's death is to end up some Stormcloak's whore, you can leave this house right now," he ground out.

The words cut deep, and not just with me. "Marcus! How could you?" Mother gasped, truly affronted.

She moved to stand with me, to put her arms around my shoulders, but I shook her off. "If that's what you think of me, if that's the esteem in which you hold me, I wouldn't stay here another night if it was the last warm place anywhere!" I snarled, voice so low it hurt.

"Then go! _Go_!" Marcus shouted. "You're no child of mine!"

That hurt, too, but the pain was better than the emptiness. "Then I'll see you when Ulfric marches on Solitude." I said it partly to incense him, but partly because if there's anything I can agree with Ulfric's cause about, it's that the Thalmor are a cancer and that they need to be eliminated. It's about the _only_ thing we agree on. My cheeks burned and pain pounded behind my eyes.

"He'll never do it," Marcus sneered.

"He'll do it if I have to hold his hand the whole long way," I answered coldly before leaving the table and heading upstairs. My pace quickened with each step once I was out of sight.

I dragged my travel pack from my armoire and began filling it. I could only carry so much and I needed to be certain I packed for maximum use.

"Leandra, love, he doesn't mean it," Mother said from the doorway.

"Oh, yes, he does," I answered in a low tone. He taught me so many skills—if he said outright that my only value was on my back then he _meant_ it. That's not the sort of thing that just slips out.

"He just doesn't want to lose you too."

"He lost me when he wasn't willing to speak out for what was right. You didn't see that place. You didn't see the corpses and her piled up in there like so much meat. She didn't mean anything to them. I don't think any of them did. They're sadistic murdering bastards and I hate them _all_!" My voice rose shrill as I shouted, eyes stinging.

"Leandra—"

"No." I continued packing, ignoring her and her pleas as best I could. Even if all I can do is work Supply, like I did for the Imperial Army, then I'll do it. If I prove a decent soldier, I'll hack my way through anyone or anything if it gets me through to the Thalmor…

"You know, I don't feel anything when I kill them," I interrupted my mother. "Marcus—" Use of his given name instead of referring to him as my father hurt her, but I didn't care. He made himself clear. "—always said that killing scars you. But I don't feel anything. I see them fall and it's like seeing a practice dummy fall off its post. It don't feel anything, even when I drive my knife into their chests."

Mother gave a stifled sob and put her head in her hands. "What are you going to do? Really?" she asked in a low, chocked voice.

"Kill Thalmor." There was a savagery in my tone I hadn't known I was capable of. "We'll see if Northwatch Keep was a fluke or if I have an actual talent for it."

"Lucinda wouldn't want—"

"This isn't _about_ Lucinda! She's dead! She's dead and gone and somewhere where nothing can hurt her anymore! It would have _stayed_ about Lucinda as long as we were doing things 'the way they should be done!'" I snapped. "This is about _me_. I'm the one who lived, I'm the one who has to live, and I'm the one who has to deal with the knowledge that not only did I come too late to save her because of it, but I have to live with the knowledge that _it should have been me_!"

I peeled out of my clothes and changed into a set meant for travel, then looked around. Jewelry box, emptied. Ornaments from clothes I wasn't taking cut free. Ready money already put away. My bow over my shoulder. Quiver at my hip. Dagger at my other hip.

"Lea, it's not your fault," Mother breathed.

"It's not about fault," I answered, feeling sure of it. "This is revenge. Pure and complicated." I'm going to take them apart and if I have to march with the Stormcloaks to do it, damn it all, I will. "Goodbye, Mother. Keep safe."

With that, I went downstairs, only to be met by Cook, who had apparently overheard the whole conversation and—as evidenced by the hamper she held out to me—took my part. "Stendarr watch over you," she said.

"He has better things to do. But thank you."

The last thing I heard in that house was my mother screaming at Marcus, who shouted back at her.

And I didn't care.

-L-

It was chilly on the dark streets of Solitude, though golden light poured out of the windows of the Winking Skeever.

Light also poured out of the windows of Radiant Raiment.

I'd abandoned my intention to walk to Katla's farm and negotiate a horse and opened the door before I thought about what I was doing.

Endarie was humming to herself as she worked in the back room, the door ajar so she could hear if anyone came in. "What—oh, it's you." Her lip curled with distaste, eyes flinty-hard.

"Why?" I asked coldly, shrugging my warm wool cloak off. "Why my sister?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, but I want you to leave right now," Endarie answered dismissively.

I pulled out the page from the Thalmor logbook, the one accusing her of having accused me. "The Thalmor say you do. Why, Endarie? Why my sister?"

"It was supposed to be _you_ ," she answered, her lip curling.

" _Why_?!" I shouted.

Her expression grew truly ugly. "Did you really think I'd let you take my business? Did you really think I'd let you hold a club over _my_ head? If you'd left well enough alone, this wouldn't have been necessary." She waved expressively.

 _That_ was her justification?! "It wasn't necessary at all!"

"Clearly _I_ felt it was. I just wish it _had_ been you, as it should have been."

I opened my mouth, then closed it and swallowed.

"Your silence says you understand. Leave. My. Business. Alone. Now, go. Go jump off the bridge or whatever it is you're going to do. I have work to attend."

I knew what I was going to do before she finished speaking. "Do you know what the difference between you and me is?" I asked quietly, advancing on her. My ears were ringing again, my mind as clear as the wind in Windhelm is cold.

"I don't know and I don't much care. Go, or I call the guards." She looked serious, pointing with her scissors to the door. "No mistakes this time."

"When I go after someone, I kill the right person." I was on her in a flash, knife free in my hand. Her scream cut off into a gasp as the blade sunk into her chest.

Collaborator.

Murderer.

Bitch.

Each thought brought the knife flashing down, again and again and again and it was like killing Thalmor only more satisfying. This heap of meat and blood was the reason Lucinda was dead.

When I backed away, so was she.

The Altmer's face was frozen in surprise and pain. Her chest and stomach were a bloody mess, staining her golden-brown dress. She slipped bonelessly off the counter against which I'd pushed her when I charged. Blood dripped off my knife and ornamented my clothes.

The ringing in my ears had stopped. My head still felt clear. I wouldn't say I felt better, just grimly accepting that here was one collaborator who wouldn't hurt anyone ever again. She had other options. She could have found another supplier. She could have adapted. She had options that didn't involve killing someone.

To be honest… I never expected her to be capable of anything worse than rudeness.

I stepped back, looking at the piece of paper in my hand. They need to know. They need to know why she died.

I tore the portion of the page with Lucinda's apprehension under my name loose from the rest of the page. I retrieved the scissors from where they'd fallen and tacked the half page on the counter above her corpse with them.

It was dark outside, so I fished out and put my cloak on to hide the blood before leaving the city; Endarie was dead. There was no reason to kill Taarie, too. Her name wasn't on that damning paper.

With the darkness and my cloak, I did not change out of my bloody clothes, nor did I stop walking until I absolutely had to—that meant a tiny abandoned shack I found once I was out of Haafingar—because once I made it into Hjaalmarch, Endarie's death might as well have been on another continent.

-L-

5 Frostfall

Hold of Haafingar take notice:

Subject: Leandra Melisande Ashlynn

Wanted in connection to the murder of Endarie Silinaire, found stabbed to death in her shop on 4 Frostfall. The sum of 1,000 septims to be paid upon her delivery to the Imperial Garrison dead or alive.

Signed: Jarl Elisif

Countersigned: General Albion Tullius


	8. Chapter 8

Special thanks to the awesome 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

I did not, as I had shouted at Marcus, go to Windhelm and sign up with the Stormcloaks. I went to Whiterun with the intention of at least trying—for Lucinda's memory's sake—to live a decent kind of life.

I had to try; it felt important that I try.

Fortunately, I had contacts in Whiterun and, by the time I arrived, I also had plans. That's one of the benefits of an active mind and a long way to walk.

Firstly, though, I had to stop by Fralia and Eorlund's home. It had taken longer than they might have wished, but events being what they were I hoped they would pardon me.

"Hel—oh!" Fralia's eyes grew wide when she opened the door to find me on the other side. "Oh, do come in, Leandra. Come," she stepped aside and let me in, closing the door behind me. "Did-did you find—?"

I knew she was asking about her boys, but I knew she was asking about my sister, too. I was glad she left the sentence tactfully unfinished. "Thorold was fine. A little knocked around, but he and the others went to Windhelm. They thought it might be too dangerous to come back here."

Fralia's expression grew deeply lined, as if caught between fear that I was telling her what she wanted to hear, grief at losing both her sons, and relief that they were unhurt.

"They asked me to tell you to… 'to suffer the winter's cold wind'—" I had to fish for the words Thorold wanted me to convey to his mother. It had been awhile since I heard them.

Fralia patted my shoulder. "For it bears aloft next summer's seeds."

"That's right," I nodded. "I'm sorry it took so long but… things have been bad." My throat felt tight, but the words did not come out thickly.

"Not-not Lucinda?" Fralia asked, covering her mouth.

"She's dead." The words made my sinuses burn, but my eyes stayed dry. "I stayed to observe the funerary rites and hoped you'd understand."

"I do. Oh, dear girl, I do." Fralia looked for a chair and sat down in on, covering her mouth. "She was such a sweet little thing. Such a sunny disposition. Why? Why did it happen?"

I swallowed. "I didn't know how cutthroat business could be. They wanted me but got her. You know we look alike."

Fralia burst into tears and I was tempted to. I managed to resist the temptation, though. It was suddenly too hot inside. Far too hot. Stifling. I couldn't breathe right…

I let Fralia cry until she was all cried out. "So, I take it you'll be going back to Solitude?" she finally hiccupped, knotting her gnarled hands in her skirts.

"No. My father—" I nearly gagged on the words, "—and I had a massive falling out. I'm no longer welcome. Don't worry. I plan to start over and build up. Whiterun is a good place for a merchant."

Fralia looked up, her eyes wet. "I've heard how grief can tear a family apart. I'm so sorry."

I didn't tell her it was revenge and pacifism that had split us apart. It seemed like forever ago, all those hard words. Ugly words. "I hope you and Eorlund will still be willing to do business with me?"

"Where will you stay?" Fralia asked, ignoring my question artlessly.

I shrugged. "I'll pay for a room at the Inn. Hopefully—"

"You will _not_ ," Fralia said, pulling herself together. She had a mother's bite in her tone that almost, almost, made me smile. "You'll stay here with me. You can have one of the boys' rooms." Then, before I could protest further, "You helped when I needed someone most. You got them out alive. You brought word back to me. How could I not help you when you need it?"

How could I tell her no?

"I'll gladly rent my roo—"

"No."

"Or pay for board—"

"Absolutely not."

"Fralia!"

"Leandra!" Fralia came over and took me by the shoulders, studying my face. "Dear girl, you've aged."

To my surprise, she wrapped me in a hug that brought the tears to my eyes. I swallowed hard, then buried my face in her bony shoulder, tears seeping from my eyes.

But I wasn't really crying.

Smoothing my hair, she continued, "I wouldn't take a septim from you, not even a button. If it's so important to you, we'll work something out. But I will not have pay from you when I owe you everything."

It was strange accepting such a thing from someone else. If I had to, I could justify to myself that I couldn't afford to alienate a potential client, especially now that I was starting over.

The prospect frightened me, but at the same time tempted me. I'd tended Marcus' established business since I was sixteen—barring the two years I spent with the Legion. The idea of trying my hand at raising something from almost nothing…

The idea, the challenge, was exciting enough to get most of my mind to stop brooding on the ugly things in my life and focus on the challenge for challenge's sake.

-L-

Ysolda is my kind of person, an enthusiastic go-getter who doesn't take 'you can't' or 'you'll never' gracefully. In fact, much like me she's likely to apply herself all the more dedicatedly to prove people—like Belethor—as wrong as the man who felt that he'd found a potion that turned iron into gold.

Ysolda's dream was to enter the mercantile circle. The last time I was in Whiterun on business, I showed her a couple tricks that got her in with the Khajiiti caravans—my family has had little luck with them—and she proved to me that she had a silver tongue that could be trained into a golden one, given time and a teacher. She had a marvelous start.

Her main problem was that her items for trade tend to be handmade goods which are a start but belong to a limited market. She needed contacts and practical know-how to grow her business. I needed a job and it didn't seem right not to give her the option of being a part of my plans to enter the mercantile circles under my own name.

It would also reduce competition.

Let us say, for the moment, that this was in memory of Lucinda. I don't think they knew each other, but it's the sort of thing Lucinda would do—help someone even if she was also helping herself. A fair partnership.

"Leandra!" Ysolda blinked when she opened the door to find me on the other side. "It's good to see you back."

She knows that, formerly, I work on a higher grade than her handmade trinkets so she didn't ask if I was interested. She's also very self-reliant and wouldn't accept much help if it felt like she was being treated as a good deed.

"Yes, and it seems I'll be in Whiterun for a while. Do you have a few minutes? I'd like to speak with you privately." My mouth smiled the way it used to while I was still working for Marcus and didn't feel like dealing with people despite it being necessary. A false smile that doesn't look false is a useful thing for a merchant to have. And if you remember to move your brows and the muscles around your eyes it's harder to spot a fake smile.

"Really? I mean, of course. Come in." She stepped aside, letting me into her tiny home. It was hot from the cooking fire, despite the open window, and full of the smell of overly spiced food. Ysolda crossed her arms, giving me her full attention as I glanced around her home.

"How is business?" I asked without preamble.

"Oh, it's going well, I think," she smiled, and set off explaining her progress since the last time we spoke.

It wasn't how I would define 'well' but she's just starting and lacks capital to make the jump to the next rung of the mercantile ladder. Still, she had dreams (if not actual plans) and aspirations (if no clear idea how to go about obtaining them). She was eager, though, and passionate about her chosen profession… even if it was not quite where she wanted it to be.

I think her real end goal was to push Belethor out. He's so unpleasant but he's also the only general goods store in Whiterun.

I let her talk until she was all talked out, which took some time. Finally, when she paused for breath, "I have a proposition for you."

Ysolda's eyebrows rose, her expression pleasantly neutral. It was a good start on a merchant's mask—as Marcus used to call it.

I outlined it for her plainly, because Ysolda appreciates plain speech. I had capital and know-how. She had a dream and a direction. She could make inroads with those by making use of my resources. I could make a living now that I'd decided to move to Whiterun. It was very much a 'Column A, Column B' situation.

A store would have to wait, but a wagon and horse that could make journeys on the coattails of the Khajiiti caravans (or independent of them once hirelings could be obtained) could be easily obtained. I had contacts in every major Hold which meant a wider net than she currently possessed. If I don't say anything, they won't know I've separated from Box of Wonders—they'll think I'm opening a second shop somewhere. I know Marcus—he won't say I've separated for fear of scandal.

Ysolda did the smartest thing a merchant can do: she asked for twenty-four hours in which to think.

-L-

9 Frostfall

Report on Northwatch Keep

First Emissary Elenwen:

The silence of Northwatch Keep is not due to weather or negligence. Everyone is dead. The full company from the Inquisitor in charge to the lowest gate guard. According to our list of personnel no one escaped. The only prisoners remaining are dead. The barracks was the sight of greatest slaughter, which implies that this band struck in the night. There is no way of knowing how many there were, only that there were no signs of magicka that could be detected. Whoever these people were, they knew what they were doing. It is difficult to say if anything is missing, though the bodies do seem to have been rifled. We will continue with the cataloging and inform you should we discover anything of note.

The motive for this attack, at a place so off the beaten track, so well-guarded, is unclear, as is the entity responsible for it. We're too far from Windhelm for Stormcloaks to have traveled so far, aren't we?

I shall continue the inspection and find out whatever we can.

Yours,

Ganra

Appended: First Emissary, we found that the logbook containing information on prisoners was missing and that one body was removed from the facility—that of one Leandra Ashlynn. Someone has our list of casualties, informants, and collaborators. If this is not a Stormcloak action, it means someone could make a killing selling names of victims or names of collaborators to interested parties.

-L-

(Unsent, Windhelm)

11 Frostfall

To Miss Ashlynn of Solitude,

I received my letter back from the proprietor of the Nightgate Inn—he said it was returned because you weren't in Solitude anymore. Are you well? I thought I'd been discreet about things that needed to be discreet. Talos above, I hope I wasn't wrong and that you're just… somewhere. Safe.

I'd like to write 'where are you?' letters to all the contacts on your list, but it doesn't sound like a good idea. I mean, Windhelm, right? So I'll just put this one somewhere and remember you.

 _Are_ you well? Solitude is a big blind spot for us so there's no way for me to find out.

Stay safe.

Ralof

-L-

(Unsent)

18 Frostfall

Dear Miss Ashlynn,

There's dragons about and they're nasty pieces of work. My unit—including our friends—took one out two days ago. It was an ugly fight, and we're not sure if Vidrald's burns will ever heal completely. He's going to have some nasty scars, but he's satisfied. Women supposedly have a thing about scars.

Is that even true? Or does it depend on the woman? That's not the sort of thing I'd ask Gerdur, she'd want to know why I want to know—I swear, I will always be her little brother, emphasis on little. You, on the other hand, are up-front and answer without fear or favor.

Not that I'll get an answer, not having sent this, but it feels better to have asked.

I hope you're alright.

Ralof

-L-

Ysolda could do little until the Khajiiti caravans came back through Whiterun except stockpile tidbits that might tempt the Khajiit into bargaining. I had the wagon and the horse and was preparing to take a few days off and go with Ysolda to Riverwood and let her try her hand with Lucan and Camilla. Riverwood, as I explained, is not a trade hub—however, there are certain items that are always in fashion as long as they have a purpose.

Being a merchant isn't about carrying silks and velvets all over the world, nor is it about—nor is it _solely_ about—convincing someone to buy something he or she really doesn't need. It's about tailoring one's offerings to the place where they are to be sold. Riverwood is, after all, a town of workmen.

And I remembered Ralof mentioning that woodworking was a common pastime in a mill town, which means that some of the locals might be willing to part with wooden curios at a low price.

Buy low, sell high(er). That's the trick.

But until the caravan came back through, we were rooted in Whiterun.

I worked Fralia's stall during the day partly for something to do (Ysolda watched for an hour or so, usually, so as to see the tricks I employed, which we often discussed over lunch). I also did it, partly, so I felt I was contributing something to the family offering me both room and board.

Fralia did seem genuinely happy to have a young person in the house, and part of me wondered if she hadn't secretly wanted a daughter. If fathers tend to want a son, mothers tend to want a daughter. It's just one of those things, I suppose.

Work and planning helped push grief aside, though I often felt as though some part of Lucinda was hanging around, like a shadow over my life.

I took up regular practice with my bow again. Once, I'd always practice a little every day when I wasn't on the road, but I'd gotten out of the habit. More than that, I took up the study of alchemy with Arcadia; I needed something useful to fill out the hours. I'm one of those people who really does need to be busy—and it was a nice break to go out in the evenings or early morning and gather reagents.

Arcadia, knowing I was in the mercantile business and knowing that Ysolda and I were trying to make a go of one, gave me a list of ingredients she wouldn't mind having in place of money for lessons—most of them were not easily obtained locally and some of them were downright rare. However, I know people and if I don't know _them_ the people I do know probably know them.

Exchange is sometimes better than coin.

I found the exacting nature of measuring and balancing components soothing—and it was good to know I could brew a cure for illness if I needed one. I would never achieve Arcadia's level of competency, but poisons and potions are just tools and one should not overspecialize.

Unfortunately, beneath all this, was the sense that I was trying to hold something inside me back—that cold place that didn't care about killing people as long as they were Thalmor. Or collaborators. Deep, deep down, somewhere I didn't like to think about, part of me was preparing for a war with them, even as my higher mind tried to force myself into the idea that people lost loved ones all the time and dealt with it without further bloodshed, that Lucinda wouldn't want me to get myself killed, and that it would be the ultimate irony if I turned out to be just like _them_ —cruel, senseless, and evil.

-L-

(Unsent)

21 Frostfall

Dear Miss Ashlynn,

Is it strange that I find the group feeling a bit lopsided without your bow? Because that's how it is. Even Avulstein thinks there's something weird—but he's not exactly a strategist. I heard him yesterday cussing your bad judgment for not coming with us. I think he likes you more than he lets on. Don't worry, you're not his type, just… I think it bothers him to think so highly of someone he considers 'an Imperial.'

He's simple and keeps the world that way. Please don't hold it against him.

Winter's moving in, so the war is expected to cool down a bit. You can only move so well when the snows come, especially in large groups.

I hope that the mess in Helgen stayed dead with its dead. You didn't deserve to be there. We've heard Tullius got out—I hope he thought better of 'justice' and meted it out as a good leader should.

Maybe it's not right to ask, but I've been wondering what your sister's favorite flowers were. You'll probably think it strange, but I do try to keep her memory. I don't like to admit it, but it's a 'just in case you can't' thing. I hope every time I do it that I'm not actually leaving flowers for you.

If you're ever in Riverwood, stop by and see Gerdur. Give her my love and maybe she'll let me know you're all right.

Zenithar's blessing,

Ralof

-L-

It was a pleasant trip to Riverwood, chatting with Ysolda. Although several years younger than I, she had a maturity that would have balanced out age if I hadn't felt so ancient and cynical, try as I did to hide it. It was the end of Frostfall, and the weather was still mild compared to what it would have been in Solitude.

The trees were still green and the sunlight dappled the road with shadows as it shone through the leaves. The smells of woodlands and river were pleasant and refreshing, as was the gentle breeze that tugged at our hair and clothes.

Ysolda was leading the horses harnessed to the wagon while I walked along the riverbank, looking for reagents. Sometimes you can find nirnroot, which Arcadia prizes. They have an oddly musty smell and give off a pale sort of glow that doesn't extinguish immediately upon harvesting.

Nirnroot is odd in that it is often uses for poisons but can be used—by a very clever alchemist—to create a draught of invisibility. If Arcadia was having trouble with that aspect, then it was definitely beyond my skill level. I was still making sure my potions didn't coagulate in their bottles by the morning after brewing.

"That's a lot of alchemy lessons," Ysolda noted as I rejoined her, abandoning the banks of the river with a basketful of nirnroot.

"Indeed," I answered. I'll hold back a bit for myself, of course, which I've learned how to do, but most of it gets traded to Arcadia for lessons in her craft. Part of alchemy is learning how best to preserve one's reagents if one can't get fresh. Lavender, for instance, can be dried and powdered, but it works better if one extracts the essence and puts it in a neutral carrier such as perfumes use. Nirnroot doesn't extract like that and simply needs to be dried and hung in a well-lit place, otherwise it molds, dried or not.

And nothing smells like moldy nirnroot. The reek is indescribable.

"What are you thinking?" Ysolda asked.

"Just that it's nicer here this time of year than it is up north," I answered blandly. Ysolda is chatty, but like many chatty people is content to run her mouth until it's indicated she should stop.

I found it a good quality. No one trusts a shy merchant. Nor do people trust one who walks into town when she has a wagon.

We pulled to a stop outside Lucan and Camilla's shop and had just gotten down out of the wagon when a voice called, "Miss Leandra!"

I turned to see Frodnar and his dog—I assumed it was his—standing some way off. "Hello, Frodnar—"

"Mother! Mother!" the boy took off at a run, the call less of warning and more of 'look what I found!'

"Friends?" Ysolda asked.

"Sort of. Gerdur runs the mill," I indicated the sawmill ahead. "You don't need me," I gave her a little push towards the door. "You can handle them."

Ysolda nodded, took a deep breath, and went inside. It's one thing to bandy with Khajiit. It's another to start forging your own contacts and ferreting out what local treasures are available. She's chatty and personable, she'll be fine.

I met Gerdur halfway to the sawmill. "You're alive!" she cried and, to my surprise, hugged me. "Ralof's been _so_ worried about you!"

"Has he?" I asked blankly.

Gerdur stepped back, hands on my shoulders. "Of course he has. As soon as his first letter to you was returned, saying you didn't live there anymore, he wrote to me to see if I knew anything. Of course I didn't, but I said I'd keep an eye out for you."

"How is he?" I asked politely, unsure what to think except that my promissory note was not worth as much now as it had been.

"Well except for worrying," Gerdur said. "If you could write him that you're well, I'll see it gets to him. He'd be so relieved and I'd take it kindly."

"Of course. I'll do it before I leave." It was polite, at the very least. I was a little surprised to hear he'd taken it upon himself to write to me just to write—that was the impression Gerdur gave, anyway.

"How long are you in town?"

"Overnight. My friend Ysolda and I are expanding our business and I remembered the charming wooden combs in Lucan's shop."

Gerdur chuckled. "Ralof did quite a few of those, you know. He's good with his hands, though you mightn't believe it."

Reading between the lines, the work of an artisan and wouldn't move much within this community. On the other hand, when one needs to do something with one's hands, one has to do something with the product. Still, although Ralof had mentioned he was something of a woodworker, it surprised me to learn the delicate pieces had been his.

It surprised me further to discover he'd been worried about me. I'd been confident he would be fine with Avulstein and the others… or, and perhaps it was wrong of me, I'd been so worried about my own predicament and clawing out a niche for myself that I hadn't thought much about him or them.

As I thought about it, though I didn't say it to Gerdur, I wondered if he would want to hear from me now that I'd committed a murder and then run away from it. He seemed as though he would answer to 'nice, law-abiding fellow' except for the Stormcloak thing.

And, frankly, I found myself with less concern over 'that Stormcloak thing' than I had previously. Their fight pointed them at the Thalmor. I couldn't give a damn about Ulfric's politics—

I snipped the thought off as neatly as I could. "I'll pen it and leave it with you before I go," I promised.

-L-

(Delivered by courier)

27 Frostfall

Dear Ralof:

Pardon me for not answering your previous letter(s). I left Solitude permanently and rather abruptly shortly after my sister's funeral. But, for your comfort, I'm alive and doing fairly well. I ran into Gerdur on a business trip into Riverwood, which is how I found out you'd been trying to contact me.

Permit me to thank you again for your help in recovering Lucinda's body. It brought closure to my family and that alone is worth almost everything.

I'm living in Whiterun now, and with a partner am growing a mercantile business. It's much what I did in Solitude, only beginning with a blank slate. It's quite exciting in theory, but fairly mundane in practice. As it stands, we work in Whiterun Hold, but most of my contacts have proved willing to work with Ysolda and me as independent entrepreneurs. I'm hoping to expand into the Rift next year, it having such a healthy market.

But I suppose my business concerns are of little interest.

Let me send you my best wishes—keep safe and be well. Zenithar's blessings upon you (forgive me for being unused to invoking Talos).

Cordially,

Leandra of Whiterun


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks to the wonderful 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

(Delivered by courier)

2 Sun's Dusk

Dear Leandra,

I'm glad you're alive and well.

Ralof

-L-

(Unsent)

2 Sun's Dusk

Dear Leandra,

Why is it that when I don't know where you are I can write a decent letter but when I know you'll actually receive it the words just won't come? I just sent you a letter—and I don't plan to send this one—that had about six words not counting the greeting or the ending.

Why move to Whiterun? It's not a safe place, since Balgruuf won't make up his mind about what 'the right thing' is, as far as he's concerned. (Each to his own, even if it puts us at odds. It's hard to argue your conscience against another man's. Or woman's.) I thought you had a steady place in Solitude. Maybe you should go back—there's no way there will be fighting there for some time, yet. You could go back to Whiterun once things settled, one way or another.

I can't believe I just admitted that. Or maybe I just don't want you up in a second- or third-story window taking shots at us. Your aim is fairly wicked.

Anyway, I'm glad you're well and wish you luck with your new business. I'm not much of a businessman myself, but it sounds like you have your hands full. From the little I know of you, I think that's how you prefer to be—hands full—so I'm glad for you.

To be honest, we're having supply difficulties here, and it looks like they'll get worse once winter sets in in earnest. You know, Windhelm doesn't really thaw out during the year, it just gets slushy. Fortunately, although garrisoned in Windhelm, I don't spend as much time there as one might think. There's a lot of walking and wandering around the back country. Winter is not the season for wars—not in Skyrim, anyway. It really isn't.

Geirlund mentioned you the other day, just in passing. I'm glad I'll be able to tell him you're alright. I don't know if you know, but Geirlund lost a sister to bandits not too long before he met you. He might not have taken to you quickly or strongly while you were around; but just the other day he sounded like a very protective stand-in older brother. If you were here, you might have to beat him off with a stick to keep him from trying to _be_ your older brother. I notice that when it comes up anymore, he doesn't say 'true Nords.' It's always 'true sons and daughters of Skyrim,' the way it's supposed to be.

I don't know what that would mean to you, but if I were to send this, I'd want you to hear about it.

We're redeploying tomorrow, so I'll do my best to do my job and—for both our sakes—keep my head down.

Blessings of Mara upon you (I'm not sure how you'd feel receiving a 'blessings of Talos'),

Ralof

-L-

My mind was only half on what I was doing—hawking wares for Fralia, as usual. The other half was worrying over Ysolda, who was preparing for her first solo pilgrimage to Riften to speak to the proprietor of the Pawned Prawn, who had expressed an interest in the trinkets Eorlund has back-stocked. I advertised them as being straight from the Skyforge, which means that he can double almost whatever price Ysolda settles on.

Part of being a merchant is having a good grasp on what the local current market value of a thing is and what your client can set his or her local market at.

That was why I didn't see the redhead—the one from Helgen—until she was almost right in front of me. "Hello, there."

"Hello, indeed," I answered, a little surprised to find her standing in front of me. Her Dremora was thankfully absent. "Did I thank you for your help at Helgen?" I was in such a state by the time Ralof and I ran into her that I couldn't remember.

"Probably," she answered with a shrug, as though thanks weren't necessary. I wondered what she did for a living, for she did not have any of the hallmarks one usually associates with mercenaries. She still looked like a walking armory, though.

"Then I thank you." My mother raised Lucinda and I to be proper young ladies—that is to say, manners conscious ones.

"I didn't know you lived in Whiterun," the redhead noted as she peered at the goods on display.

"It became necessary that I relocate," I answered simply. "It involves a death in the family; please let the matter drop." Most people are courteous enough to do so, even without the request. I needed the extra words though, because saying it aloud pressed against sore spots that I wasn't sure would ever truly heal.

I still have bad dreams about Lucinda. And sometimes it's me they captured. I'm not sure those will ever truly stop, either.

The redhead's expression shifted to one of sympathy and 'I can't believe I kicked a soft spot.' "I didn't mean to pry…" she offered.

"Leandra," I supplied into her trailed-off sentence. When in doubt, fall back on introductions if they haven't been made and change the subject from there. "And you are?"

"Bellona," she answered, seizing the change of subject eagerly and with relief. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in purchasing jewels for this sort of thing?" she indicated the silver necklace with its sapphire pendant. The sapphire had an unusual impurity near its heart, which left it looking almost like a blue eye in a silver setting.

My first thoughts were of the jewelers I know and with a trip to Riften in the works my first thought was of Madesi, the Argonian. He's always on the lookout for gems. "Mmm… perhaps. Let's see, first," I answered with polite interest. Never say 'yes' or 'no' unless you can help it.

Bellona produced an array of particularly large gems and a couple ugly rings that—to a collector or melted down into jewels and base metals—would be worth a pretty septim. The loose jewels were all pre-cut but not in the current style. That meant they were older, maybe out of some barrow or cave.

Ownership is nine tenths of the law and from what I could see of the jewelry, it was very old—old enough that it was unlikely I'd be fencing something without knowing it. Still, they were nice and I knew Madesi would fancy them.

"I… come see me this evening, after I close up shop," I declared, putting the emerald in my hand back on the counter where she originally set it. "I can't speak for Eorlund, who crafts these," I indicated the wares on the counter, "or for a friend who might be interested, but I can speak for myself. I'm personally _very_ interested in your gems."

I'll bring Ysolda to the negotiation. She should help decide which pieces or how much of this small trove we ought to handle.

Bellona nodded, scooping up her things and putting them back in their bag. "We'll negotiate then."

"Excellent, say around six at the Bannered Mare?" I asked.

"Six at the Bannered Mare. Sounds like a plan." With that, she set off, leaving me to wonder how hard I would have to lobby with Ysolda about a temporary foray into moving jewelry. Meanwhile, to find out what I can about this Bellona person.

Never go into a bargaining session blindly. It never goes as well as it could.

-L-

(Unsent)

20 Frostfall

Dear Leandra,

The gods have the strangest sense of humor. It's been a week and I'm still trying to work it out.

We were near one of the borders—I won't say where, just to stay in practice of not writing too much—when we ambushed an ambush. They were waiting for someone and we got the drop on them. It was insane. And then, while we're in the business of sending one another to Sovngarde—bam! This dragon shows up out of nowhere and starts trying to mop both our parties up.

Did you know those things can breathe ice? Well, they can. I always thought it was just fire, but apparently not. I wasn't the only one a bit surprised about that.

I asked you once, in one of these letters how women feel about scars—on a man, obviously. Does it depend on the woman? If you're wondering why I'm asking your first guess is probably the right one. I'm fine—got it scrapping with a human and not the dragon, because obviously once the dragon was dead it was back to where we started. Business as usual, one might say.

Well, maybe not quite 'back to where we started.' I don't think either side really 'won.' There was a token scrap and both our groups grabbed our injured and pulled back. It was a dragon fight. No one was in good condition after that (the others are fine, though—just bumps and bruises).

We came back to the dragon later to find nothing but scales, claws, teeth, and bones. I took a claw off it; maybe it'll carve like wood. Do you think so? I hope so. It's a nice change of pace.

How's business? Going well, I imagine.

I'd love to hear about it. You sounded so enthusiastic about it when you wrote. I regret not having sent that longer letter, now. I suppose six words is a great way to tell a girl 'don't write me, I'll write you.' That wasn't what I meant. Really.

I think it was more that I didn't want you to be put off. Maybe it would be uncomfortable for you to know that I was impressed by your courage in the face of death at Helgen and floored (I can't believe I'm admitting this) at Northwatch Keep. I'm glad you're not Imperial Legion because you would lead the Legion to our collective backsides and say 'kick here for best effect.'

I guess if there never seems a time or place to bring something up it's best not brought up at all.

By the way, Avulstein thinks all these letters-going-nowhere mean I'm crazy.

I don't know. Do you think that if things were a little different—maybe I shouldn't finish that, unsent letter or not. I'd have liked to get to know you better. Or maybe I should have sent that stupid letter instead of the one I did: either you'd tell me to go drown myself (you seemed direct enough to do so) or I wouldn't feel this odd blank spot in the world.

Or maybe that's why I didn't send it: I'd rather not be told to go jump in the lake by you. And most of these letters turn out more like a journal entry than an actual letter, anyway. They'd worry Gerdur and I wouldn't want that.

At least with you there's a chance you wouldn't worry. Or a chance that you might, but not quite the same way as Gerdur.

Yours,

Ralof

-L-

Ysolda's trip to Riften—accompanied by one of the Companions, who are barbarically usurious in their rates and who seemed to have been in a business lull—was a total success in that she brought back a good price, bought back excellent goods, and came back with a boost in confidence that did my cold little heart some good to see.

She also brought back all sorts of gossip which ranged from the very useless (the color green is in fashion) to the moderately interesting (dragon sightings all over the Rift) to the very interesting (apparently one of the Black-Briar boys was put in prison—by his mother; not that he didn't deserve it). None of it was really pertinent to business, but information is information.

I wish I'd gone with her, but if she always has me hanging around she'll only learn to wait for me to catch her if she slips up and become careless. People have to be allowed, at some point, to learn things for themselves in a situation with consequences—big or small.

She was already preparing for a trip up to Markarth, it being the next major hold. One should work a trade route and stick to it so one's contacts know when, roughly, to expect you. Marcus maintained a route that visited each of the four major Holds—Markarth, Whiterun, Windhelm, and Riften—once a month (well, three after the rebellion started). That wasn't the only route, but it was the biggest, richest trip each month.

As for me, I took the day off to wander into the outlying lands. With Frostfall coming to a close, Whiterun could expect bad weather to begin setting in regularly. This meant an end to my alchemical practice with local, freely obtained reagents.

So I set out with my quiver and bow, my basket, a lunch and my harvesting shears.

The first frosts had already killed all but the hardiest specimens, which told me that part of my reason for going—one of those reasons one doesn't realize is there until one is confronted with them—was a need to be out of the city and away from people for a while. Even a merchant or shop girl needs a little room to breathe without having to answer questions or have her attention called away for this or that reason.

I'd made my way out to the Western Watchtower—or what was left of it—before I stopped for lunch. With a basket half full, I felt that things were going very well indeed. I'd carved out a life I felt comfortable with and which promised to get better with time. I'd know how comfortable once I knew who Balgruuf intended to throw his lot in with.

Then again, with winter already set in in Windhelm and Solitude, the war will have to slack off a bit. It's the season for minor skirmishes, spies, and assassins—the people who can move freely and easily in spite of snow.

Winter is an inconvenience to those in the mercantile business, but there's no such thing as an 'off season' for a successful business.

The sound of voices made me look up from my lunch and my ruminations. I could have screamed, but my teeth clamped shut instinctively.

Coming up the path were three Thalmor and a prisoner wearing heavy manacles and shackles. At first I sat where I was because I was rooted by fear. These people had haunted my dreams for over a month. They'd taken my sister away from me. By helping Endarie they'd aided in the shattering of my family.

And all I could think, for a moment, was 'how many more families have to be broken?'

They saw the fear—and, predictably, called it out and joked with one another.

They didn't see that fear turn to anger. This time there was no ringing in my ears as I stood up. I felt like a puppet, moving as if pulled on strings. I also felt like the puppeteer, tugging a string here, lifting an arm there.

There were three Thalmor in their long, charcoal grey robes.

I knew if I did this I would be dead before the first one hit the ground. And yet all I could see in my mind was the boy—he was little more than a boy—among them, poorly dressed and clapped in heavy irons.

I didn't even think about it: I picked an arrow from my quiver, head strangely clear, brought the string back to my ear and let the shaft fly.

It took the Thalmor at the back of the party first. The boy with them shouted and in a second, had wrestled the one on front of him to the ground, the chain of his manacles around the elf's throat. Not the most effective garrote, but it pulled the elf out of the way of my second arrow, which took the one at the front of the troupe in the chest.

I had my harvesting shears in hand by the time I reached the place where the elf and the boy were still struggling. The boy's nose was bloody, but the elf couldn't get the chain caught under his chin free. It was over in a second. I planted one knee on the struggling elf's chest to keep him from flopping around like a fish, caught his chin in the palm of my free hand and used it to turn his head, exposing the beating pulse in his neck. The sharp inside of one of the shears' blades sank deep as I pushed it in, pulling along the line of throat and opening that vulnerable vein.

He was afraid when he died. Afraid and shocked. How could this happen to him?

I'll bet his victims all asked themselves the same thing at one time or another.

The boy slipped the chain free of the Thalmor's bruising neck and pushed the elf off. "Th-thanks."

"We need to move the bodies," I declared pragmatically, slipping my cloak off. It was a little bloody from the last Thalmor's death, but it would be bloodier if I tried to move one of the bleeding elves with it still on.

"Who are you?"

"Just kneel down, I'll let you have the light one. Whiterun is a neutral province. Their deaths could be inconvenient when discovered."

I helped the lad shoulder one of the corpses, then took another myself. The elves were heavier than they looked, but necessity is a good aid when strength along might not be enough.

We stashed the three bodies and all their equipment in the Western Watchtower's ruined shell. "We need to get these off you," I declared, studying the chains, manacles, and shackles. They were loose and while he might be able to slide them off his hands—at the cost of a lot of skin—the ones about his ankles were not going anywhere without serious work.

Or a key, which was one of the pockets of the elf who had walked in the lead. Sometimes the best answer is the easiest one and perhaps the too-obvious one. The boy seemed to have decided I would answer questions or volunteer information in my own time.

I have three dead Thalmor. What do I need to do?

I need to create an acceptable death for them. Thrown here they look hidden—which they are. Is there evidence, aside from the boy himself, that there was a prisoner? Yes, but it can be easily removed. If it looks like a robbery and that won't raise suspicions. Bandits happen, even in an orderly Hold like Whiterun.

But what about _me_?

I could have let them go. I could have, but I didn't. I didn't think about it, I simply brought them down the way I would have done for a wolf or a frostbite spider. And I still felt nothing, looking at their corpses.

"Help me strip them down. This has to look like a robbery—bandits picking a tougher target than usual. The Jarl will put out a call for the heads of the nearest band and the Thalmor can't complain. It's a danger everyone runs. Who are you, lad?" I asked.

"Me? I'm a true son of—"

"Stormcloak. That's your business, then," I interrupted, having no interest in the propaganda. He was young enough to parrot enthusiastically whatever his elders said around him. "You need to get yourself into the Rift as quickly as possible." It's the closest Stormcloak-supporting Hold. "We need to get you dressed properly. Better yet—we need to hide their clothes." Clothes are one thing; gold has no name attached to it except that of the one carrying it; weapons and jewelry may or may not have a name attached to them.

…I have a much better idea.

"Get dressed." I thrust a wadded-up handful of the more sundry clothes the Thalmor wore under their robes to combat against Skyrim's climate.

Sun-loving elves from warm climates aren't as resistant to the cold as natives of Skyrim are.

"I can't pass for a Thalmor!" the boy squeaked. His eyes lingered on the bloodstains of the others as he shook out the garments. They belonged to the one whose throat I slit, so the blood was mostly on his outer robes.

"You aren't. You're going to dress warmly." I took a dagger one of the elves had carried and spread out the cleanest of the charcoal robes, carefully severing the collar and the sleeves, reducing the garment by inches to something less recognizable. Grey is not an uncommon color for clothing and tattering around the old seams wouldn't be remarked upon either as long as he was on the road. "Get rid of this as soon as you can," I said, upon discovering he'd done as I commanded and dressed. "Rinse it first." I handed him the cut-down robe, which looked battered and tattered.

"Who _are_ you?" the boy asked, goggling at me as I dragged the corpses off to one side and piled them up as best I could.

"Someone who doesn't like Thalmor. Names are dangerous. Now, turn around," I gestured with one finger. I inspected him, then nodded. It's not ideal, but it should work. "Take this," I handed him the gold collected from the Thalmor and one of their knives, "and this. Go to Riverwood, follow the road east and south. Buy new clothes and supplies, then get yourself into the Rift. Make your own way after that." I gathered the rest of the elves' belongings, and their remaining clothes.

"What about all that?" he nodded to my armload.

"I'm going to make it disappear. One way or another. Now go."

I followed my own advice, cutting cross-country. By the time I got back to Whiterun I had coin, jewelry, and a fine dagger hidden beneath the reagents in my basket.

I also had a plan.

If I couldn't just let the Thalmor walk by when all they'd done was heckle and jeer, then I couldn't be trusted around them at all. There was no guarantee I could avoid crossing paths with them so, that being the case, the next best thing to do was point myself at them in earnest.

This meant only one thing, as distasteful as I found it—but it was less distasteful than waiting to commit more murders; I just couldn't imagine the scene playing out any way than the way today's had. Maybe self-restraint, but I'd felt so calm, as if I was doing something I'd done a million times before. I comforted myself with the idea that if my attitude towards Thalmor failed to secure me a place among Ulfric's band, then I'd simply hunt them until they caught up with me.

The main thing though, was not to look like I was running away from Whiterun. I might need to come back.

By the time I arrived in Whiterun I felt calm again—or rather my mind had ceased to swirl with maybe, what-if and what-now.

It was late evening, which meant I would have to wait for break of day to leave. I could do it.

I made arrangements with Bjorlam to take me to Windhelm by the northern route. Bjorlam didn't ask why, though I volunteered that I had business to conduct there just in case Balgruuf declared an allegiance which would make it inappropriate for a Whiterun citizen—as I felt myself to be—to have business there at all.

The more people who thought I was on a short-notice business trip the better. Ysolda wouldn't ask questions, either: I'd always painted it that someone with first-hand connections should deal with Windhelm if it became necessary. It's a cold city and the people are just as cold unless you've gotten in with someone among them.

Now, it seemed as if I'd been almost prescient about needing a reason to go to Windhelm myself. The trick would be convincing Ysolda to stay in Whiterun where it was safe. I didn't like the thought of dragging her down with me.

"Good evening, Fralia!" I called, pleased to hear my voice sounded as cheerful as it ever does.

"Leandra, dear." Fralia appeared out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "I see the fresh air agreed with you."

She fusses, dear Fralia.

"It was. I actually ran into a friend of mine on the road—she had a tip I'm not sure I can pass up," I answered, heading to my room.

"Oh? What sort of tip? For your business?" Fralia asked, following.

"Yes. You might as well know, it's taking me to Windhelm," I added in a lowered tone. "So if you want me to try to find your lads… "

Fralia looked torn. "Can I talk you out of going? It's almost Evening Star and you know what that means that far north and east."

I think, more than anything else, she'll miss my company. It's nice to be needed.

"I'm afraid you can't. I could use the fresh air and the change of pace," I answered. "I miss being on the road. Besides, I'm sure if I can find them your lads would want me to bring a message back to you. Just so you can see it in their own hands that they're alright."

Was it a low blow? Yes.

Did I care? No, because I really do think she'll be happier sending notes than not.

"Oh… alright. If I can't talk you out of this—" she paused.

"You can't. I'm a merchant at heart; it's what I do."

Ysolda proved just as easy.


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

Windhelm was a cold city, very icy and very—as the name suggests—windy. I slid about on the ice if I wasn't careful and wished I had boots with nails in the bottoms so as to latch onto the ice more effectively.

The air wasn't the only cold thing in Windhelm. "—come where you're not wanted, you eat your food, you pollute our city with your stink—"

I reached the altercation in time to put out a hand to catch the dark elf the drunk—once I got close enough I could smell the alcohol on him—shoved back. We both slipped a little, she and I, though my stable footing proved enough to keep us both steady.

"— _and_ you don't support the Stormcloaks," he sneered.

The look he gave me with his watery, mean little eyes was fairly indicative: _we don't want_ your _kind here, either._

The Dunmer shook loose of me and looked, from her posture, like she'd like to slit the drunk's throat. "We haven't taken a side because it isn't _our_ fight," she answered dryly.

I wish the lummox could have understood the real insult. I smirked at it, though: 'if this is a private fight for _true Nords_ we'll just stay out of it, per your insistence.' She's a clever one.

"Hey," the mammoth on the drunk's left said, nudging his friend. "Maybe the reason these grey-skins don't join the war is because they're Imperial spies. And maybe they ain't the only ones."

"Imperial sp—" the Dunmer sputtered before looking over her shoulder at me. She snorted and shook her head, giving a venomous, disbelieving look at the drunks. "You _can't_ be serious."

Her tone was like a hot knife through butter. To anyone less stupid and less drunk it might have had an effect.

"Mother was a hagraven, was she?" I asked sardonically, indicating the drunks. My heart fluttered in my chest as I resisted the urge to reach for my dagger when the louder of the two bristled. "You can always tell," I added to the Dunmer, "the father couldn't have been that smart and it passes on."

She gave a soft 'hmph' that I took to mean agreement.

"Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy," the more vocal of the two drunks said, moving offensively close to both the Dunmer and myself. She backed up a step, swallowing hard. "We have ways of finding out what you really are." This second remark he hissed at me.

I didn't move. I simply looked up into his red-rimmed eyes, considering my own reflection in their glassiness. Beneath my cloak, my hand slipped delicately towards my dagger.

The silence unnerved him, but not enough to back off; the silence unnerved his friend, too, who had more sense. I could see myself bringing my dagger out from beneath my cloak and sliding it across his belly, spilling his innards. I wouldn't start anything, but I wouldn't indulge anything more than insults.

It wasn't the same murderous rage that bubbled up especially for the Thalmor, it was colder and more logical. It was still dispassionate though, and made me sure that something was wrong with me. There was only one answer to this observation: do something constructive with it.

"Hey, Rolff, c'mon."

I continued my silent glower until Rolff allowed his friend to pull him away. My hand slipped away from the hilt of my dagger.

"I think you may be in the wrong city, friend," the Dunmer announced. "Windhelm is nothing more than a haven for prejudice and narrow thinking. A true cesspool of civilization."

This accorded with everything I'd ever heard about the Stormcloak movement.

" _Will_ he try anything?" I asked. I swear, the sheer amount of fumes coming off that man could make one lightheaded. The air seemed so strangely clean in the wake of his leaving.

"He hasn't yet," the Dunmer answered darkly, crossing her arms more to ward off the chill than out of fear. "Most Nords in Windhelm don't care much for us, but Rolff is the worst of them by far."

"How so?"

"Hmph. He likes to get drunk and walk around the Grey Quarter yelling insults at us in the small hours of the morning. A real charmer, that one."

Inwardly, my lip curled. Outwardly, my cheeks burned with cold.

"You should know, it isn't only Dunmer they hate. Just about anyone who isn't a Nord is fair game for their bullying. Be careful," she advised.

"Thank you. I appreciate the warning…" I regarded her expectantly.

The elf looked surprised at the opening for her to supply a name. "Suvaris."

"Leandra." We shook hands, partly because that was what any well-bred person would do and Suvaris was both well-spoken and well-mannered.

"No lollygaggin' ladies," a sharp voice belted out. "Off about your business."

" _That_ , at least, is for good reason," Suvaris said, touching my arm. "It's getting late and it's not safe after dark. Candlehearth is just that way. Elda may have an empty bed, yet."

I took this to mean there was more going on than Rolff the Witless, so I headed up to Candlehearth. I'd stayed there before, and the only difference between then and now were the number of Stormcloaks packed into the place. With Fralia's letters to her boys—which I knew she'd spent all night composing and had re-written several times—in my backpack I was sure to look at the row of backs of heads in hope of spotting a profile I recognized as I moved on.

"Hey—what's your business, Imperial?" an uncouth voice asked.

I was just fast enough to keep my arm out of a ham-handed grip.

"If it were any of yours, you'd know. As you don't…" I answered in the archest of arch tones, the one designed to needle and nettle.

Several people laughed at this, but the drunk started turning red. I turned my back on him, trying to still the adrenaline shakes that began to assail me. I succeeded and was well pleased by the fact. Mind over matter.

I heard the man move, my hand slipping nonchalantly towards my dagger. I don't have to kill him but I'll be damned if I let anyone get the idea I'm a victim.

To my surprise, a voice spoke up in my defense. Or, rather, a _familiar_ voice spoke up in my defense. "Watch it, fella. She's a Thalmor-hunter, that one. What do you think she'd make of you?" Avulstein's voice demanded sharply.

"Mincemeat," Thorold's voice declared in answer, his tone not devoid of menace. "Assuming anyone ever found his body."

I said nothing, letting Avulstein and Thorold who had come to tower over my shoulders diffuse the situation. The altercation ended with the handsy one vacating his place, while I was wedged into a spot at the bar between Avulstein and—when I glanced over—a very shocked Ralof.

"What are _you_ doing _here_?" he demanded, his eyes and mouth almost comically wide.

I wanted to chuckle at his expression. I'm not sure what it was meant to convey, but it was certainly in the vein of being glad to see me. I won't say he didn't look a little hopeful. The Stormcloaks must be shorthanded.

"Appreciating a very timely intervention. Four here, please, and a room for the night if you have one," I waved to the woman behind the counter before slipping my backpack off and pulling Fralia's notes out of the outer pocket. I handed them wordlessly to Avulstein, who read the address and passed Thorold's along.

The old woman behind the bar brought four flagons and took the coin I put out. "There's a room. Ten septims a night."

I fished them out and handed them over. She handed over the key, which I put in the purse at my hip.

"How long are you here?" Ralof asked, recovering himself. Or, rather, hiding behind his mug to do so.

"That depends on whoever is running this army," I answered.

Ralof was not the only one to spit back into his mug or give me shocked looks.

It was almost funny. "I'm here to kill Thalmor. I'm not in it for the cause and I'm not in it for some ideal. I'm just here to kill Thalmor." Let me be very clear on that point. "If the recruiter or whoever can't handle that… then I'll do it on my own. It just seemed better to do it as part of an established movement," I explained calmly, sipping my drink and approving the flavor. It certainly put a bit of warmth back into me.

Silence followed as I took another sip of my drink. It wasn't Black-Briar Reserve, but I rather think a couple kegs of it would suit the Companions down the ground: it burned a bit once it had been swallowed down.

"So, tell me about Windhelm," I declared robustly, finishing my drink and putting the flagon on the bar. "It's been some time since I was here last."

-L-

(Candlehearth, Windhelm)

2 Evening Star

Dear Mother:

You don't need to worry about Thorold and I. We stay together and don't try anything too crazy. Little surprised to see Leandra here—sounds like she's planning to stay. We'll keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't get blown away. Lightweight like her should put rocks in her pockets.

Love,

Avulstein

-L-

(Barracks, Windhelm)

2 Evening Star

Mother:

I'm fine. Still fine. Really. We've been rotated back to Windhelm pending a new assignment. It was good to hear from you and hear that you're alright. I don't know what Leandra's thinking coming all the way up here on her own like she did, but she's dead-set on something. We'll look after her best we can, try to talk some sense into her. I don't know how this is going to get back to you otherwise.

Love,

Thorold

-L-

The Palace of the Kings was a cold, grey, dreary abode. Bare-bones and utilitarian, it spoke of someone who was not much of a diplomat. My first thought was that Eastmarch must be in an economic downturn: why else would the place be so sparse and bare, unless the Hold couldn't afford to furnish it properly?

Or maybe it was simply the lack of a woman's touch. Ulfric has neither wife nor mother nor sisters to worry about such things—and I don't think his cadre of thanes, housecarl, and steward do, either. Else the steward, at the very least, would bother himself about the poor impression guests have. Austerity doesn't inspire confidence.

Not that I said any of this out loud. I'd expected my 'escort'—Avulstein, Thorold, and Ralof, augmented by Vidrald and Geirlund—to take me down to the recruiter, whoever that might be. That was certainly the impression they'd given, and Avulstein had hinted heavily that there was a very open, very eager-to-have-me-back spot on their team if they could get it approved.

If I had to work with Stormcloaks, I'd rather work with people I knew. Thus, I was grateful for the offer and made that quite clear. It mollified Geirlund somewhat; remembering what I'd been told about his sister, it didn't surprise me that he was glad to see me for about two minutes before he took the stance that this was no place for me. I accepted it as the kindness he intended it to be, however chagrined I felt.

Rather than to a recruiter though, they took me to the Palace of the Kings and refused to say a word as we kicked our heels, waiting for some indeterminate occurrence. Hence why I got a good look at the dreary main chamber, with its massive dining table and Ulfric's throne at the far end of the room. The throne was backed and flanked by windows that let in snow-filtered light—a good trick for dazzling eyes that had to look in the Jarl's direction when he was holding court. A clever bit of theatricality, that.

The occurrence turned out to be the appearance of a hairy Nord—and I mean this by a Nord's standards—who looked more like a bear than a man, a were-bear, even. He wore a bear pelt like a hood and cloak, and had _claws_ affixed into the knuckles of his gauntlets. And there was something about him that jiggled something in my memory that made me immediately hold him in some… distaste.

I corrected myself immediately: the occurrence was the arrival of the Bear of Eastmarch himself, not the were-bear—Galmar I suppose, since that's the name of Ulfric's housecarl and one expects a housecarl to stick close to his or her Jarl.

My stomach squelched in my guts as Avulstein and Thorold started forward. Ralof took my arm when I didn't move. "Don't worry. It'll be fine," he whispered in my ear, giving my arm a squeeze for good measure before releasing me.

I felt very small all of a sudden, hemmed-in by all these burly lads.

The last time I saw Jarl Ulfric, he was gagged, bound, and headed for the block. He was a bit cleaner-shaven than the was the last time I saw him, but the frown lines between his brows had grown more pronounced and his cheeks looked a bit thinner.

I half-listened as Avulstein addressed the were-bear—confirmed to be Galmar Stone-Fist—explaining that he had a recruit who had already proven herself with meritorious service, the sort of thing one would expect someone appealing to an old soldier with the clout to say 'you want this new recruit? Take her,' to say.

Ulfric was listening while giving the impression he wasn't. I thought I saw something of politics in here—he can overrule Galmar if Galmar says 'no'—and if the lads have a way to grab his ear.

At the moment Ulfric's gaze caught mine—his amber eyes narrowed with shrewd consideration which indicated he remembered me quite clearly—Geirlund and Ralof both moved so Galmar could see me clearly.

Galmar looked me up and down slowly, taking in my still Imperial-style clothes. "What's a foreigner want to be fighting the Legion for?" he asked bluntly.

The mercantile business gives one a thick skin when it comes to insults. Even if I take them all seriously, I don't take them to heart. After all, what's Galmar to me, personally?

When I spoke, I spoke to Ulfric though I was looking at Galmar. "I'm not a foreigner; the blood of Men mingles as much in the veins as upon the ground." A little impolitic, but I had everyone's attention. "My family has been in Skyrim for five generation on the short side," I answered darkly. "I'm here, first and last, to fight the Thalmor, and your cause points me in that direction. If the Legion is in my way, so much the better for you. So much the worse for them." I inclined my head, aware of the others shifting as if wishing I hadn't been quite so up-front.

"If you're not for the cause—" Galmar began in the tone of someone ready to brush me off.

"It's an odd tone to take at all," Ulfric noted tolerantly.

I turned to him and curtsied as a well-bred girl ought to do to a Jarl—any Jarl. But I watched him from beneath my lashes. "I would rather there be no lies or false assumptions where I am concerned, my lord. Pardon my directness or my honesty in motive if they have offended."

Ulfric considered me. "I think I know you." And I'm sure he knows from where and under what circumstances we met.

"That is very likely, my lord. I was at Helgen. Permit me to thank you for your many courtesies, as I was unable to do at the time."

"And what could have changed your tune, I wonder? I seem to remember that you were a partisan of the Imperial Legion and their Thalmor masters."

"That is true. And a fervent partisan I was."

"You are no longer?" Ulfric arched his eyebrows.

"Forgive my being forward, my lord, if I misunderstand your question. I no longer think in terms of Stormcloak and Imperial Legion. I see Thalmor, those who get in my way by protecting them, and those who are my allies against them." Then, suspecting I knew what the silence meant. "My cause is revenge, my lord. The Thalmor owe me a life. They owe many people many lives, I imagine." And I have a book recording a good number of them—something I can make use of if I can find the right channels. "I intend to collect. You have my bow, my dagger, and any other skill I possess as long as your road leads to their hubs and bolt-holes."

Silence descended.

"Normally, I would tell you to take your vendetta and leave," Ulftic announced.

"You would be right to do so, of course. I merely wished to offer you the first opportunity to benefit from my skills," I answered.

Another thoughtful silence. By the time Ulfric nodded and broke it, I was the only one not squirming to some degree. "And I owe you something, I think, for the lives of my men. Galmar, get her blooded. We'll continue the discussion at a later date."

"Thank you, my lord, for your generosity." I bowed my head, then got to my feet and gave my attention to a disgruntled Galmar.

Avulstein and the others didn't seem to quite know what to think—on the one hand, I should have kept my personal politics personal until I was in with them. On the other hand, I was an Imperial looking to join up—that needed some explanation. And, perhaps, recognition that Ulfric had zealots and true believers aplenty, but perhaps fewer with my more mercenary mindset.

"His lordship requires a task of me," I said imply, regarding Galmar coolly. "I am eager to prove my worth."

His expression crinkled and wrinkled, but he twitched his massive shoulders. "You're heading for Serpentstone Island," Galmar said, crossing his arms. "Strange rock formation, built by the ancients north of Winterhold. Men have tested their mettle there for ages. Something about the place attracts the Ice Wraiths. Kill one. Bring back its teeth, and we'll have all the proof we need about you."

"Lads. Stay a moment," Ulfric commanded, holding up a forestalling finger.

I bobbed him a slight curtsy, then another to the Jarl, then withdrew the requisite fifteen paces before turning my back to leave.

-L-

I did not go find the lads at the barracks. Rather, I went straight to the Palace of the Kings, the Ice Wraith teeth clutched in my hand.

Well, some of them: they're a useful reagent to have in one's stockpile. I was met by the steward, Jorleif, who motioned me to follow him, then stopped me at the door to a small antechamber of the throne room.

"—intercepted couriers from Solitude," Galmar's voice rasped, "The Empire's putting a great deal of pressure on Whiterun."

"And what would you have me do?" Ulfric asked shortly.

"If he's not with us, he's against us," Galmar grunted.

How very in keeping with his were-bear presentation.

"He knows that," Ulfric answered patiently. "They _all_ know that." Then, as if glad of a distraction, "What is it, Jorleif?"

"My lord, there's a young lady saying she's completed Galmar's errand. She's asking for him," Jorleif declared.

"Send her in," Ulfric declared.

I was past Jorleif just in time to see him wipe a smug look directed at Galmar off his face. "My lord," I curtsied politely, as I ought to. "You sent me for Ice Wraith teeth. I have them."

"We don't abuse our knees as Imperial courts would have," Ulfric noted sourly.

"Pardon my upbringing, my lord," I answered, rising.

Galmar lumbered over and I tipped the teeth into his outstretched paw. He frowned at them then looked over at Ulfric. "Looks like I owe you a drink."

"I have the rest," I declared, seeing the doubt that maybe I just bought them off an alchemist. I dug in the pouch on my belt and withdrew the little reagent bag, which I held out. "I am something of an alchemist—but if you require them all, take them."

"Your friends paint a colorful picture of you," Ulfric said, taking the teeth from Galmar and turning them over in his hand.

"What picture do they paint, my lord?"

He watched me sideling as he spoke, "They say you're a murderer. Or murderess, as you prefer."

I don't think they said it like that. He's poking for reactions; there goes the myth that he's not the sharpest tool in the shed. "It was manslaughter, but yes. I did kill someone in Solitude. Her lies killed someone dear to me. Murder would have been killing the sister, so that the accuser might share my pain." I'm not a lunatic, after all.

Ulfric's mouth twitched as if to smile grimly, though Galmar grimaced at the splitting of hairs.

That's all the practice of law is, at the end of the day: splitting hairs and haggling over definitions.

"And I've been told repeatedly that you were responsible for the success of the attack on Northwatch Keep." He looked away from the teeth to study me closely, as if he could read me like an open book.

I met his gaze easily, my expression carefully blank. "I helped in the planning and in the execution. The young men sharing these fine stories with you are equally responsible."

"And these Thalmor in Whiterun?"

He could only have gotten that from the lad I sent back here, whatever else he implies. I certainly hadn't mentioned specifics to the lads, just that I'd run afoul of them and felt it prudent to decamp. "Goodness, these lads are quite the fishwives when it comes to gossip. The incident in Whiterun was nothing special, my lord. I killed three Thalmor I came upon. They were there and I was there—and, if the lad with them had any sense, he should be rejoining your armies at some point," I answered.

The joke about gossipy fishwives did not fail to amuse. If one believes Marcus, then soldiers are some of the biggest gossips in the world. "Which lad?"

"Names can be dangerous, my lord. I didn't ask for his just as I did not give him mine. Thus I could say 'I don't know about whom you speak' if asked and there will be no lie to be read upon me."

Ulfric studied me for a long moment, his whiskey-colored eyes gradually narrowing. "What if I told you I know your kind?"

"I would ask what kind you meant. Womankind? A citizen of Solitude? Or of Whiterun? Or do you have something more specific in mind?"

"One with whom Death walks," Ulfric clarified grimly. His tone asked 'what do you say to that?'

I considered this in my turn, as it was a fair question and an even fairer observation. Finally, with all the pragmatism I could muster, "Better with me than with someone in the Legion."

This earned me a crooked grin. "Find your lads. They can have you, if they're willing to deal with your… plus one, shall we say?"

I curtsied, shallow but polite, remembering his former admonishment about excesses of the Imperial brand of courtesy. "Thank you, my lord."

"Mm-hmm." He nodded to Galmar, then to me.

"Are you ready to take the Oath?" Galmar asked.

"Oath?" I didn't look at Ulfric, as he walked around the strategy table, but I knew he was watching me. He's studying me, seeing what makes me tick. I decided I approved of him as one who understands people, an astute observer, someone who knows how to place people to their maximum usefulness.

At the moment, I think he was trying to decide how I would explode, as the revenge-driven so often do. But mine is the cold, calculating kind of revenge, the one that only ever damages the one pursuing it—if damage is taken.

"You can stick a sword through an Imperial or a Thalmor any day you want. But that doesn't make you a Stormcloak," Galmar declared expansively—though I think he didn't like me much or like the idea of accepting me into the ranks of his 'brothers.' "We're not just fighting Imperials. We're fighting to restore Skyrim and give her the king she deserves."

Ah. _That_ kind of oath. How original.

"Before you're considered one of us, you must swear fealty to Jarl Ulfric Stormloak, future High King of Skyrim. You must also pledge unswerving loyalty to your fellow Stormcloaks, to Skyrim and to her people." He glared at me as he finished his assertion.

Reading between the lines, one of those statements is Galmar's wish—the first part, since he's a man with a simple mind and simpler views. The other is closer to the Stormcloak manifesto—the words being Ulfric's. There's too much room for argument between the statements—it's one thing to swear to a lord, it's another to swear to the people, the Province, and/or one's brothers in arms. One might not be so good for the others, after all.

I looked way from Galmar to Ulfric who was not watching the table, but the exchange. "Forgive my boldness, but do you insist on this, my lord?"

"It's considered usual," he answered.

It's nice not dealing with a fool.

"Very well. What is it you wish to hear?" I asked Galmar, giving him my full attention.

The content of the remark was not lost on Ulfric, but it was lost on his housecarl.

"That's the spirit," Galmar nodded. "By swearing this oath, you become one of us."

Imagine my enthusiasm.

"A heroine of the people."

Of _some_ people.

"A true daughter of Skyrim."

I already was.

"A Stormcloak."

I winced inwardly, but didn't let it show. It still sounded distasteful… but I'd better get used to hearing it.

"Now, repeat after me: I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim."

"I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim," I repeated. The words were empty for me. It doesn't matter. And Ulfric already knew it. It was why he said 'it was usual' rather than 'yes.'

"As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond. Even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms."

Oh, that is _classically_ Stormcloak. "As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond. Even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms."

"All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim."

"All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim." Hooray, hoorah.

I looked over at Ulfric, who nodded once. It's only a false oath if I violate it; it's what Galmar needs to hear to sleep at night. Better if he'd had me swear on my need for revenge.

"Your new unit will be at the barracks. Talk to the quartermaster. You can't go out looking like that," Ulfric declared absently.

I bowed my head respectfully, mumbled my thanks, and withdrew.

"You think I need to send Balgruuf a stronger message?" Ulfric asked.

"If by 'message' you mean 'a sword through his gullet'—"

Ugh. The man has no subtly. He wouldn't know subtlety if he scraped it off his boot.

-L-

I frowned at my new regalia. Gone were the traveling clothes of the well-bred Imperial and there was the uniform of the Stormcloak rebels. The chain mail hung heavily from a frame not used to supporting it; the leather long jerkin reduced my range of motion; the boots were heavy and the gloves not yet broken in; worst of all, I felt ready to drown in the long wrap of Stormcloak blue. I was glad there weren't any mirrors in the quartermaster's hall.

"There you go, all suited up," Ralof said bracingly before hesitantly picking at the wrap at my shoulder to settle it more comfortably. Clearly he was ready for me to shake him off and do it myself. "Takes little getting used to, but it's like that for everyone."

I forced a smile. His attempts to cheer me up as I traded my previous identity for this new one had not been particularly subtle. Still, he was no Galmar, and his kindness was clearly genuinely meant. "I appreciate you coming with me."

I'd intended to do it alone, but Ralof argued that unless one knew a thing or two the quartermaster was prone to fobbing off any old weapon that came to hand on a person whether that person could handle it comfortably or not.

They didn't need my sword ending up too heavy for me to use—especially since they were returning to the field the day after tomorrow. Although the war had stalled because of the winter months—both Solitude and Windhelm being snowbound with regards to armies and the like—there was still plenty to do.

Winter is the season for spies and assassins… and I'd already begun to wonder if the Stormcloaks had anyone handling that sort of thing—someone dedicated to it. Because it seemed to me that the movement would benefit from not treating every situation like a nail in need of a hammer.

Under Ralof's watchful eye, we found a bow and a short sword that I could swing easily—with the promise that I would learn how to use it properly.

To my surprise, when we went to the mess for lunch, I didn't stand out. It wasn't that different from the mess in the Imperial Legion—the conversations were all more or less the same. "So what does your unit do?" I asked, picking at my beans and ham.

"Depends. We've done border security, a couple of skirmishes between the Pale and Haafingar, sometimes escort missions. Recruitment. That sort of thing," Ralof shrugged. "Whatever's needed—and there's never a shortage of bandits when work gets slow."

I nodded my understanding and continued to pick at my soup, drenching bread in the broth so it looked like I was doing something constructive with the meal.

Ralof fell silent. So silent that I realized just how morose I must seem. "I'm sorry," I apologized, "I'm just… "

He didn't say it was alright. He merely patted my back, gently and apparently uncertain whether I would appreciate the touch or not. "You'll get used to it. And faster once you've got something to do. We missed your bow plenty of times."

"Did you indeed?" It took effort to force myself to be part of the conversation, but Ralof's encouraging smile helped. It was a sweet smile.

It made me feel cold and… I don't know. It was a good reminder of what a wretched creature I'm allowing myself to become. Good people shouldn't waste their sweet smiles on such as I.


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

"And how is it you know so much about battle-planning?" Olaf asked.

The unit I'd been allowed to join consisted of six people excluding myself: Avulstein, Thorald, Ralof, Vidrald and Geirlund. And then there was Olaf, some young kid shunted over to their unit for who-knew-what reason.

Although I'd been assured, the day I took my oaths, that we'd be in the field in a few days, we ended up being detained for a few days by a particularly bad ice storm. During this time, Olaf had decided he resented a newcomer being treated like an old comrade when he was a newcomer himself.

The lads left me to deal with Olaf on my own and in my own way—which I preferred. It was good not to feel handled carefully. Apparently once I was 'one of them' my general toughness and aptitude were left to expose themselves. It was, on the whole, a good track to take. There's a time and place for ladies and gentlemen to be ladies and gentlemen; they hovered a bit in town to make sure I didn't run into any trouble (or, as Avulstein teased, trouble didn't run into me). Fighting in a war doesn't require those kinds of manners and social forms.

"Because I'm smarter than you," I answered, finally worn down by his constant whining, whimpering, and challenges.

"Know why _I_ think you're here?" he asked snidely.

Thorald glanced at Geirlund who nodded agreement at the handsign accompanying Thorald's look.

"And I don't care—I'm just glad you _can_ think." I got to my feet, shifting uncomfortably in my uniform. I bought a pair of gloves with my own money that weren't made for some ham-fisted person so my hands, at least, didn't feel hampered in their movements. "Don't be the one to foul this up," I warned, dusting snow off my knees.

"You've got _such_ a gentle touch," Geirlund noted softly, shaking his head and exhaling a stream of steam.

"I'll belt him in the mouth next time, I promise," I answered back. It had been over a week since leaving Windhelm—mostly spent on patrol—and Olaf was finally getting on my nerves. He might be the baby of the group, but I was the only girl—and a pretty one. It didn't help that I already knew the others fairly well, despite being the new addition.

And when this new addition talked, the others listened.

"Careful, girl," Vidrald grunted.

"That's why Ralof's got the job of ham-stringing it," I answered with a smirk.

"And I've got reach you don't," Ralof noted as he made to cut around our objective.

"That too." It comes from being a mixed-heritage woman—everyone in this group is significantly taller than me.

Our job, our first major and specifically-assigned job as a team, was to take out a giant that had made something of a nuisance of himself somewhere south of Mixwater Mill.

Giants are almost as bad as dragons—though the lads had a story about a dragon and felt the giant was, by far, the lesser of two disasters—in that they're very large, very powerful, and their mammoths are usually attached to them. Personally, I'd never been on a mission to clear out a giants' camp—not that this is surprising given my former life.

The plan was simple, which meant few things could go wrong.

Olaf—and I may or may not have suggested him as bait because he annoyed me—would enter the camp and distract the giant. A sword clanging on a shield is a decent attention-grabber.

Vidrald and I, from a good vantage point, would be ready to pepper it with arrows. This was a standard idea for any such mission and needed no discussion during the planning phase.

Avulstein and Thorald were in charge of keeping the mammoths from stampeding (or coming to aid their massive master) while Ralof—with Geirlund to cover him—would hamstring the giant so it couldn't rampage. That hampering action had also been my suggestion. I prefer, in my personal battles, to stack the deck in my favor, especially if I am at a strength disadvantage.

And when fighting a giant, _everyone_ is at a strength disadvantage. Best to do something about that, rather than just melee attacks from three sides and an archer here or there.

Olaf, Geirlund and Ralof would all sail in at that point, assuming Vidrald and I hadn't brought the thing down by that time. The trick, Vidrald and I agreed, was to aim for the eyes, the softest part of any target. It meant the thing would flail, which was why Ralof needed cover—but it also meant it couldn't see where it was flailing.

Assuming the mammoths were under control, Avulstein and Thorald would rejoin the group, clashing swords on shields. The noise would draw the giant's attention away from the troupe members closest to it and hide any attracting sounds they made.

All in all, it was a tight plan and, assuming Olaf could be depended upon, should go off without a hitch.

And when he realized I wasn't really trying to get him killed, perhaps his attitude would improve.

-L-

"Ugh!" I gagged, stepping back from the containers of what looked like cheese curd that could only have come from the mammoths. It smelled to high Aetherius but what it smelled _of_ was impossible to describe.

"I think she's turning green," Olaf noted, a little more smile and a little less snide in his tone.

"People _eat_ this?" I demanded, staggering back and into Ralof, who put his hands on my arms to keep me from being any clumsier.

"Usually. I've heard it's used to grease axels and that sort of thing, though," Ralof answered, setting me gently away from him.

"Ugh."

This squeamishness was met by chuckles all around.

"You'll get used to it," Avulstein declared.

"…why would I get used to… oh," I groaned.

"Standard winter provisions," Thorald added helpfully.

"I'll stick with the hardtack and jerked mammoth," I answered with a grimace.

"You'll get used to it," Geirlund assured me. "Melt it a bit on toast. Takes some of the bite out of it."

I don't want to get used to it. I joined the Stormcloaks, I didn't turn into one.

"Good job, though," Geirlund continued. "No injuries."

The mammoths had been successfully driven away and were grazing a hundred feet or so away from the camp. The giant lay dead in the snow, bleeding from numerous wounds, blinded and hamstrung. Personally, I wished we could have made it cleaner—my ears were still ringing from the screams and the sounds of swords on shields. I could only imagine what those actually in the fray were dealing with.

I sighed as I moved closer to the giant's fire. I wasn't prepared for the cold of Eastmarch, whereas the lads were still walking around in the short sleeves of their mail. The only concessions to the weather were leggings and close-fitted tunics under the tunics meant to keep the mail rings from digging into their flesh. I'd endured a bit of gentle teasing about my own long-sleeved tunic under the protective tunic and the hood and mouth baffle I insisted on wearing when I didn't need my peripheral vision for shooting.

I took the teasing to mean I really was part of the group—the lads always seemed to be heckling one another about something. Right now, Ralof got a lot of it for being a persistent letter-writer. I didn't see the problem, and sailed into Avulstein and Thorald that they should do half so well and write to their mother every so often. There were these people called couriers, after all and the documents would be hardly incriminating if they could keep 'Jarl and Cause!' to a minimum.

That seemed to be the biggest problem with Stormcloaks: they were so blasted proud of their cause that they ran their mouths about it whether they should or not. With my lads, it was endearing—probably because one is fond of those associated most closely with them.

On the whole, however… it was just one big display of stupidity.

As my mother used to say: _sometimes it's_ _better to be silent and let people think you a fool than to run your mouth and remove all doubt._

"What are you looking for?" I asked Vidrald, who was poking around the camp with great persistence. In fact, as I looked, the only one not poking around was me.

"Found it!" Avulstein called.

I followed the group to find a niche with a chest in it. In the chest… trinkets, evidences that travelers had, indeed, run afoul of the giant. The thing seemed to have magpie-like tendencies, for the trinkets were mostly valuable—and shiny.

"So. What's our mercantile mind think?" Geirlund asked smugly, stepping aside and motioning me to take the best position for examining the chest's contents.

I moved forward, fingering through the treasure. "I think a tithe to the Jarl wouldn't go amiss," I answered. Jarls notice people who sent tribute and, while he's already noticed my unit enough to indulge their request for a 'raw' recruit, you can never be too noticed in this context. "I also think that I know someone who will pay top coin for some of this. And, surely, you've all got a lady waiting for you somewhere—and coin is always useful."

Especially if I want to keep the impression with Ysolda that I'm working. With the bad weather, it's not surprising if I get snowed in or communications get disrupted.

More to the immediate point, I remember Ralof mentioning a girl in Helgen. I wonder if she's still alive; I know better than to ask, though.

This was met with odd snickers and general agreement.

…what? What did I miss?

-L-

(Nightgate Inn, Eastmarch)

9 Evening Star

Dear Ysolda,

Business in Eastmarch is good, as you may perceive by the items being sent to you—no one here can handle converting them into coin, but I would appreciate you doing so. I will be detained here for some time, I'm afraid. The weather is wretched. However, I shall continue to keep in touch via courier—hardy folk used to traveling in bad weather—if I cannot think up a better way. Please find enclosed an inventory and a list of items needing to be sent to me before the snows become utterly impassable.

Inventory:

1 each Amulet of Zenithar, Mara, and Stendarr

6 elven daggers (excellent quality)

2 bottles Blackberry Honeywine (experimental Black-Briar Meadery, 3E173—project abandoned)

5 rings, unknown enchantments—see Farengar at Dragonsreach

12 pieces assorted jewelry, unenchanted

3 amethysts—to Talen-Jei of Riften, the Bee and Barb; if he no longer needs them, to Madesi the jeweler in the Plaza

1 Sapphire—to Madesi the jeweler in Riften Plaza

2 mammoth tusks

1 dress of red silk and matching shoes (happy Saturnalia! It should all be in your size. Red is in fashion out here—I think they, the citizenry, are sick and tired of Stormcloak blue.)

I carved wooden sword (to be sent to Frodnar of Riverwood for Saturnalia, sign it 'From your favorite uncle')

600 septims cash to be returned into the business

(End inventory)

Do you remember my saying that sometimes a merchant is in the business of buying favors? I need to buy a few. Also, shopping and helping to shop for New Life Day presents to leave here in case business calls me away (part of the hard currency is for this reason). Check prices on the goods I need and tell Fralia my golden goose is cooked; she'll give you the amount necessary. See how much I trust you? Items are listed in order of importance.

Acquire and forward to me (Nightgate Inn, Eastmarch):

1 pair bracers, large—enchanted, Fortify Archery (offer Farengar one bottle of the Blackberry Honeywine in lieu of gold; he'll probably throw in the next item, too, if you're as clever as I know you can be)

1 tunic, undyed linen—enchanted, Resist Frost, my size

2 quivers glass arrows and a glass bow—I'm out of one and the other broke. You wouldn't believe the 'varmints' out and about in this region

See if you can get Belethor to cough up that etching set—the Solitude Scrimshaw one. Show that shyster what you're made of

1 emerald broach (preferable emerald and silver, but whatever you can find)

1 lady's fashionable fur hat (I leave it to your tasted)

Acquire and forward to Master and Mistress Miller of Riverwood:

1 of those fashionable velvet coin purses that are so popular in Markarth—preferably purple but blue will work (sign it as 'From your loving brother')

2 bottles Black-Briar Special Reserve (sign it as 'from Ralof')

Acquire and forward to Master and Mistress Gray-Mane:

Their sons' love, my gratitude, 1 pound of those snowberry honeycreams out of Riften, and that shyster Belethor's large sleeping fur. The black and silver one.

Please tell me we're getting to point of putting him out of business? I'm joking of course, but I don't envy you having to work with him.

Yours,

Leandra


	12. Chapter 12

Gone over by 16DarkMidnight80. Merry Christmas and a happy new year, everybody!

-L-

Two weeks after my induction into the ranks of the Stormcloak forces—and after two major skirmishes and several minor ones—the unit was called up in front of Ulfric. Or, rather, the unit was called up in front of Galmar with Ulfric looking on.

The lads were an effective unit to begin with; my planning and ability to move resources (although the latter hasn't made a formal impression yet) simply improved the unit's performance. And I won't say that our tribute, a cut of whatever was recovered from engagements and skirmishes, went unnoticed by the Jarl. At the very least, it will periodically redirect his attention.

"Damn the Jarls!" Ulfric barked from within his strategy room.

Unsubtle, my lord.

"They demand the Moot—" Galmar declared.

A loud thud that made Olaf flinch. "And damn the Moot! We should let those milk-drinkers put Torygg's woman on the throne? She'd hand Skyrim over to the elves on a silver platter." The animosity made _me_ want to edge back a little—but more for fear of flying furnishings than anything else. Ulfric certainly sounded ready to throw something, if only to relieve some of his emotions.

Very unsubtle. And, if I recall correctly, Elisif is a widow; therefore she's her own woman. It's a fine difference—she'll be less Torygg's over time. The question becomes upon whom she will lean, since she was never meant to become Jarl. Right now, the answer is clear: her advisors and Tullius. Especially Tullius. Although I hasten to add that 'leaning' in that quarter would be professional, since Tullius has a wife back in Cyrodiil.

"What is it?" Ulfric demanded testily of Jorleif.

"The unit you required is here, my Jarl," he answered, unperturbed.

A moment ensued during which I imagined Ulfric shaking off his temper to better deal with his troops. He certainly sounded more collected when he next spoke. "Send them in."

Jorleif motioned us in, where we all saluted—me because it was expected—and waited for instructions.

Ulfric still looked irritable, and Galmar for once looked like a man stepping cautiously. When Ulfric spoke, it was still in the reasonable tone he'd assumed. "There you are." He twitched his head irritably at Galmar and I thought, for a brief moment, that the man's irritability resulted from Galmar himself.

"I've found the resting place of the Jagged Crown. Can you believe it?" Galmar asked, his eyes alight with fervor.

This had more of an effect on the lads than it did on me: a crown does not a High King make, however important symbols can be.

And from what I can tell by talking and listening, this sort of chance tidbit of information sums up the intelligence network employed by the Jarl. After finding an Imperial observation camp tucked away in the wilds near Windhelm, it's obvious Ulfric is the only person not employing some entity whose business is subtle.

"Well, I'm almost certain."

Ugh.

"We're headed to Korvanjund. But, if old King Borgas is indeed buried there, we're bound to run into trouble of some kind," Galmar concluded, sounding enthusiastic both at the find and the fight.

The undead kind, I imagine. "Refresh my memory, sir: what is the Jagged Crown?" I asked with as much humility as I could infuse into my tone.

"Ah. I forgot. You're Solitude," Galmar almost purred. He definitely made it sound like a slight. "You won't have heard the ancient verse."

Now Galmar, old bear that you are, what's your issue with me?

"Now unleashing razor snow, of dragons from the blue brought down. Births the walking winter's woe, the High King in his Jagged Crown."

A crown of verse does not a High King make, though I'll admit with a little polish Galmar might have a future in the recitation of epic poetry such as Skyrim has.

"Going way back to King Harold's time or even before, the High King always wore the Jagged Crown. It was the symbol of his might and power."

I appreciate the use of mystique and symbols, truly, but I think it's a bit early to employ them. One needs to be able to _back_ them, or employ some kind of directly applicable mysticism to accentuate them.

Seeing that I didn't look impressed—though in my defense, my expression was completely neutral and attentive—Galmar continued somewhat impatiently, "The Crown is made from the bones and teeth of ancient dragons and is said to contain a portion of the power of every king who has worn it." Then, because my having nothing to say seemed to irritate him, "True or not, who would dare deny Ulfric's claim, when the legendary Jagged Crown sits upon his brow?" he said this as if it was the last lockpin needed for an unassailable argument.

Ulfric looked up at this and, specifically looked at me. It was an evidence of weariness or residual irritation with Galmar that he nodded his head discreetly in an 'answer him' sort of way. It surprised me a bit, and made me wonder just how much insight into me he had. I'd certainly never indicated I was a problem-solver.

"General Tullius. The Imperial Legion. The Empire. Possibly Whiterun. The elves in the Grey Quarter who have no reason to care that Jarl Ulfric should be made High King—not when they care that there is a town drunk of charming speech interrupting well-earned rest or plying them with threats."

"That would be my brother," Galmar growled.

"I'm sorry to hear that." It explains why he's tolerated—Rolff Stone-Fist turns up with a dagger in his chest and conclusions will be jumped to causing more trouble than Rolff himself. Maybe this Rolff is cleverer than I thought: the Dark Elves would be instantly blamed and, even in death, his bigotry would be served by the reprisal for it.

Or he's just a fool with good luck.

I glanced to Ulfric, since my list of 'who would deny Ulfric's claim' was a long one. I wouldn't want to bore or overwhelm and of the… lesser intellects… such as Galmar represents.

Ulfric nodded again, expression the grim complacency of a man who feels he'd pegged someone correctly and had just received proof of it.

"The Argonians in the Assemblage who have reasons to hope that his lordship forever remains Jarl of Windhelm—and _only_ Jarl of Windhelm." If that. "The Khajiit caravans who do so little business here have no care as to who is High King of Skyrim as long as it does not interfere with their trade routes—and if trade here were to open up…" I twirled a finger suggestively. "The small villages caught in this war whether they want to be or not—the ones prone to being assailed by renegades from _both_ factions. Forgive my saying, sir, but it seems to me that the Stormcloak movement is not making optimal use of the manpower available to it. A king may be killed on the battlefield but a mob of peasants with pitchforks is just as deadly and far closer to hand. I do not, of course, imply a threat in any way. I merely point out the unpleasant aspect of this topic.

"I applaud the reinforcement of idea this Crown would provide and I agree that statements and symbols can be powerful. But an ancient crown—even a crown of legend—does not a High King make. And a High King must know how to sway the masses and hold them before he can utilize a symbol to its fullest extent. A symbol only has weight if it has those who believe in it—and it is not currently convenient for many, at this time, to believe in your cause."

"You speak as a politician," Ulfric noted.

"Forgive me, my lord, if I overstep myself," I inclined my head.

Part of handling people is letting them be right when you break off an argument or a topic they find unpleasant. How do you argue with someone who admits you're right and backs down? It's a trick that must be carefully applied, lest one be seen as a pushover, but it is useful for diffusing tempers or deflecting repercussions.

"Through sources that shall remain nameless, I've tracked down what I believe to be the final resting place of King Borgas—Korganjund," Galmar declared flatly, not at all pleased with my pragmatism and bringing the conversation back to its original track.

"Go with Galmar," Ulfric declared, looking at me specifically before turning his attention to the rest of the group. "Find the Crown if it's there." He looked back to me again, whiskey-toned eyes boring into mine. "Bring it back if it is."

Galmar assumed the second half of the instruction as being meant for himself. "Don't worry. It'll be fine."

I bowed my head to show I heard and understood; as soon as I did, Ulfric looked back to his map. It was odd to be instructed so directly, particularly when it's clear Glamar is leading the task. I read 'make this happen, Crown or no Crown' in the instruction.

Unless… unless this is simply a bench-test for my capacities as someone who can stand behind leadership and make something happen. What are you planning, Ulfric? And what has it got to do with me?

Not that I'm complaining. I'm content to work with my lads for the time being; but I'm after Thalmor, and I can't do that where I—where they and I—are now.

-L-

(Excerpt: Journal of Ulfric Stormcloak)

21 Evening Star

It's going to be necessary to put the screws to Balgruuf. I just know it. He's too damn proud and too damn stupid to do what's best for Skyrim. The Moot swings with Balgruuf's voice and, right now, he's as dumb as a pillar in my hall.

I have until spring—enabling travel for men and materiel—to figure something out.

Or maybe the little problem-solver might have a suggestion. I pegged her as a brave girl at Helgen—but brave girls are common. Anyone could see she was a smart girl by talking to her for two minutes—smart girls of her stamp are rarer. She's vicious—you can tell by the ice behind her eyes and, quite frankly, it's safer to have that ice facing the same direction I am. I've met her ilk before: cold, razor sharp, adept—someone who thinks outside the usual lines. They get results, eaten as they are by a single idea, cutting directly to whatever their end-goal is. Either the achieve their aims or they die. There is no middle track.

Subtlety isn't Galmar's strong point—nor, if I'm honest with myself, is it mine. However, she puts herself to no trouble to parade this fact. I'm sure she'd be less obvious about it if the situation required it, but how else to bring it to the attention of the supposedly hard-headed?

I must say, I do find her critical and up-front ways mildly refreshing. One always needs a Daedra's advocate to keep a movement well-balanced. Jorleif is a worthy man, but has been with me too long, I think, to truly fill the role.

So I sent the girl and her unit—no question who's leading them, not with the way they cluster around her and let her do the talking—with Galmar after that stupid crown. Frankly, I doubt the thing is even there, but when that man gets an idea into his head you can't beat him off it with an iron pry bar.

We'll see how it goes—crown or no.

She's careful with her words, slippery too. I'm not sure that's a thing out of her favor but she does get under Galmar's skin. Right, wrong or indifferent—agree or disagree—she raised fine points and laid them out neatly. I half expected her to launch them at Galmar like arrows. But no, all coldblooded and methodical and I don't doubt that if I ask she'll have at least vague ideas for how to address some of the issues she cited.

I knew she was something other than the standard Imperial mold; I'm still not entirely certain what that means, all I know is that I've got a resource I didn't have three weeks ago. The question is how to apply her. She hates Thalmor with the cold kind of passion, the rage that gets things done, that moves worlds in search of expression. I'm just not sure at the head of the army is where she would need to be. I don't need someone willing to put men through a sausage grinder to obtain an objective.

It all comes back to the impressions she presents: subtlety is a gift Galmar lacks and Talos knows the Empire's puppet-masters have it in spades. I have the idea she wouldn't care how dirty her hands got as long as she got them around some unfortunate elf's neck.

Correction: some unfortunate Thalmor's neck. She's too careful in her wording to let that fine point go un-argued. And I had the impression she draws a line between 'Altmer' and 'Thalmor.'

With a dagger, I imagine she draws it.

We'll see. However much Galmar likes or dislikes someone, he won't withhold praise or complaint. If she can work with him, prickly as he's bound to feel, it will say something.

-L-

Galmar, as it turned out—and I was careful to find out before I said anything detractive about him—was respected by my unit. The man served as Ulfric's housecarl and had served with Ulfric during the War. As far as staunch supporters went, Galmar was at the top of the list. He was a hero in the minds of my lads and while I was informed of all this after the meeting assigning us to this task.

I didn't see the problem: I was as respectful as one could reasonably expect.

So I kept any further opinions on the man—good and bad—to myself. I would have done anyway, but I made a note of it before doing it.

I won't say that the respect my lads entertained for the man made them blind followers. In fact, Vidrald was about as unnerved by Galmar's short-notice departure time—the very next morning—as I was.

Well, he was unnerved, I was positively alarmed.

Barrows, crypts, caverns, anything that takes one underground really, in the province of Skyrim should be approached with caution. At the very least you'll find spiders or other native fauna; after that, spriggans; at the top of the list are the various forms of undead. Any idiot knows this.

So to want to run off without thinking about all this made me appreciate Galmar's value as a housecarl (a man who gets things done quickly and, it is to be hoped, effectively; a man of action) and question his value as one who enacts his master's will (he's too quick to jump in, and when he gets an idea trying to get him to let it go or rethink his first plan of action in accomplishing it is like to trying to divert a rampaging mammoth).

Maybe I wasn't giving him enough credit.

The fact remained that he wasn't fond of me and I wasn't fond of him—it was just one of those things where two people rub each other the wrong way. It doesn't mean we can't work together it simply means neither of us would find it enjoyable.

I honestly believed it was less my being Imperial—or looking like one—and more because that was the approach he thought would rub me the wrong way. I think he just didn't like the fact that I wasn't a Stormcloak at heart, even if I currently stood with the movement. Or maybe he didn't like the idea that I'd probably walk off, easy as that, if things didn't progress in line with my own agendas. Maybe Ulfric woke him to this particular fact about me.

I mothballed my opinions and moved on to more practical things.

Firstly, pitch-pots, flint and steel—these were for flaming arrows. The undead burn easily—so says everything I know about them—and I wanted fire available in dealing with them. That meant that I'd need someone to stick with Vidrald and I to light our arrows so we wouldn't lose time having to set up. Arrow, pitch, bow, flint. Probably Olaf.

Secondly, oil and rags for torches. I didn't have a line on magelight crystals—I'd need to speak to the College in Winterhold or, perhaps, the elusive court wizard Wuunferth the Unliving. Also, oil can be used for more than to feed a torch.

Ysolda's shipment from Whiterun had come in several days before, which meant I could stop looking like a milk-drinker when it came to being cold. Farengar must have been over the moons with the Blackberry Honeywine. For my part, I could walk around unbundled like everyone else and not feel like I was freezing to death, even if I still liked the hood and mouth baffle.

I took my fair share of teasing about it, too. It was like the unit wanted me to belong to them, really belong. As if they wanted to forget I was in this to kill Thalmor and, that the moment I decided that wasn't where things were going, I'd leave… or if something more to my talents came up.

Because I had the idea that they knew I really could be of better use elsewhere.

Due to the short-notice nature of the trip, I had to go to the White Phial and pay Nurelion an exorbitant fee for phials of weakness to fire that could be applied to the weapons of the melee fighters—for obvious reasons, this would make the flaming arrows that much more effective. Undead don't, so it's said, go down until they physically cannot continue.

And even then they try to bite your ankles.

Normally I would simply put in a requisition order, but requisitions take time (and I wasn't impressed with the quartermaster's effectiveness). Part of me wondered if Nurelion overcharged as a minor statement against the Stormcloaks.

It didn't matter, in the end. By the time Galmar was ready to leave, so were we. I would just have to hope that the Quartermaster would honor my receipt and reimburse me.


	13. Chapter 13

Thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

"I did some snooping around this morning," I announced to Galmar over breakfast the morning after we arrived at Korvanjund. "There was an Imperial camp not too far away—apparently they have the same plans as we do: enter Korvanjund, probably for the Crown. There's a full unit, twenty-five men and an officer in charge. By this point, they'll be all over the front door. I didn't scout Korvanjund as I wanted to since their presence was the more pressing issue."

I'd meant to go in and see what I could see—without being seen, of course—before Galmar and the others were up. I'd left word with Olaf, whose turn it was to keep watch, so Galmar wouldn't assume I'd run off or something insulting. While I hadn't had permission to go look, it's standard Imperial procedure to have a look around before going into a potentially hostile situation.

That we hadn't been wakened in the night by legionnaires suggested we were further back than they wanted to look. Or maybe we'd arrived after they had their look around. All I could tell for certain was that they were waiting for daybreak before actually going into the crypt and I wasn't ready to try my stealthiness against twenty-six pairs of nervous ears.

I imagine everyone gets nervous in old crypts, especially when there to take something out of it. _Things_ inhabit Skyrim's ancient crypts.

I considered this unit of eight versus a group of twenty-six. However, we've done with those kinds of odds before, and this time we're not dealing with mages. Although it's fair to remark that we're not dealing with sleeping men, either… but the rigors of tomb-robbing (which was _exactly_ what we were doing, and I'm amazed 'warrior's honor' allows such a thing) might thin the numbers.

"Damned Imperials," Galmar breathed, his words accompanied by a column of steam. "I'll bet their spies found out about the Crown and they're here to stop us from getting it. Or try to," his grin invited the lads to share the joke. There were wry smiles, even I wore one, but one could tell they were waiting for a plan before breaking out the 'death to the Legion, yay Stormcloaks yay!' bit.

I had to wonder if Galmar's anonymous tip was the same who gave the Legion the tip. There are always those who play both ends against the middle, if only to see how the chips fall. Or maybe I'm simply being cynical about this.

"At least we can't miss them: they gleam like the snow and clank like ovens," Galmar nodded.

This was, in my mind, a good thing. The bad thing was that they were at Korvanjund at all.

Korvanjund was in the Pale, which meant it was the province of Jarl Skald the Elder—a Stormcloak supporter (if a tacit one). For him to learn that Imperial forces got halfway into his Hold would irk him to no end—if only because they didn't ask and a unit in a barrow of a faction other than the one you (tacitly) support is an insult.

Not that any Jarl can be totally in control of his borders, there just aren't enough soldiers in Skyrim to assure something like that, but _Imperial Legionnaires_ plundering the resting place of a legendary king of Skyrim? That can be taken as many things from presumption to an outright insult. It doesn't matter if it would probably be cited 'in the name of Elisif the Fair.'

I blinked twice, adjusting my mouth baffle.

Korvanjund was a subterranean structure—as many in Skyrim are—and the Imperials were climbing all over it.

"I smell Torygg's woman behind this," Galmar grunted.

Or Tullius got wind of it too, perhaps through 'a source that shall remain unnamed,' perhaps not, and seeks to ensure it doesn't fall into Ulfric's hands since it's a symbol. I just can't see Jarl Elisif sending anyone after anything. She sits in the Blue Palace and handles household matters. Everyone in Solitude knows the power structure is the Thalmor (though no one would stay it out loud), General Tullius, Legate Rikke, and Jarl Elisif—in that order.

"Sir, if I may—" I began.

"You may not. Archers to the rear, melee up in front. Let's give these Imperials—"

Well, being polite certainly didn't work, did it? "It's better to use the Imperials as fodder—you said yourself that Borgas would have 'something' down there. All we need is a little patience to thin down their numbers."

"Or let them get to the Crown ahead of us," Galmar growled.

And we just kill them and take it away.

"You were sent as support—so support." He glowered from beneath the teeth of his bearskin hood.

"Yes, sir." I let the matter drop. There's a competitive streak there that I can't do anything about. I can see him as being useful on a battlefield, but not on a mission allowing for finer maneuvers. Best I can do is make sure my lads come home.

And him, I suppose, if it comes to that.

My unspoken orders were clear: _make this happen._

"I'd like a straight fight that's a straight fight," Ralof breathed to me as I settled down.

"Just keep behind him once he starts swinging that axe of his," I answered in an undertone. "If any, there will only be two or three battlemages, assuming I know anything about the Legion." And I would.

"Rather fight the whole Legion than creep around a place like this," Avulstein interjected. He hates being underground, as I've learned.

"We'll get this done," I reassured him.

"I know some of you are ex-Legion, and may know many on the other side." This time, Galmar was not speaking directly to me. I suppose others might have served their two-year stint before all this started happening. "But they're your enemy now—and they'll kill you quick as they would me. If you've got anything immediate to tell the lads, tell them. But hurry it up."

It surprised me that he offered me the opportunity. Or maybe he heard me muttering to them and figured he couldn't really stop me. "Yes, sir. Remember the potions I issued you," I declared, "save them until we know we've got undead, then use them. It'll soften them up for Vidrald and me. Olaf, you're our fire-starter," I handed him the flint and steel, "stay close to us. Mind your footing once we're in. It's just Northwatch all over again—lacking the overabundance of mages."

Mentioning Northwatch was a good idea; I saw some of the concern over numbers ease. Everyone gets nervous before a battle. It doesn't matter how many you've gone through. I was nervous as—when it wasn't Galmar's—my voice was the one being heeded. I couldn't afford to show nerves or anything but cold 'I'll bring you all home' confidence.

-L-

We didn't get much use out of the Legionnaires: we caught up with a group of them in the first major chamber—and hit our first blockade.

"That's an ambush if ever I saw one," Galmar growled. Then, he turned to me. "This is your bailiwick. Find us a way around. If there isn't one, we have to go the direct way. If we hear fighting, we'll come help."

"Yes, sir." Up-front but not stupid. Good to know. I was starting to worry. "Vidrald, Olaf." I nodded and moved to the periphery of the room. "Eyes open."

We found an up-and-around, which was a relief as I was not in favor of the direct method—and was, this time, in the minority. I couldn't tell if this preference for a straight up fight was because Galmar was there, because people didn't like being underground, or because it was a close-quarters, multi-person scrap with the Legion.

Fortunately, the time it took us to find the way around was that much more time the Legionnaires had to figure out any traps—or get caught in them. And they did find a few.

The narrow walk upon which Vidrald, Olaf and I found ourselves was a shadowy place, hard to see—I imagine—from the ground. Better yet, it turned to get around the Legionnaires' ambush altogether—there was a wooden sort of wall, ancient and crumbling, that separated the hall ahead from the side chamber where we were.

It would be best to bring the whole group around this way and hit the Legionnaires from the back, but this way is narrow and Galmar doesn't strike me as having the patience for such a stealthy-before-fighting maneuver. Not as a personal preference, anyway.

His words from the doorstep echoed in my mind, supporting this view: _that's how I like it, short and bloody._

Furthermore,I wouldn't want to trust the weight of six well-sized Nords—Olaf hadn't put on his full bulk yet—on this walkway.

"Spot four," Olaf whispered, pointing to a spark of light he was in a better position to see.

"One on the deck keeping watch. Ambush beyond." That put us at anywhere from ten to fifteen troops so far—most of which were dead on the doorstep and in the first chamber.

"Vidrald. Go back. Tell Galmar to wait until he hears me shout—this is too perfect to pass up. Then come right back. We'll give these fellows the worst kind of surprise," I declared, feeling a grim smile twist the line of my mouth.

With a wolfish grin, Vidrald made his way back and, after a longer time than I felt comfortable with, returned. "He says do it, but he's not happy. The only reason he agrees was because walking into an ambush was less appealing."

Then he shouldn't ask me to do my job. "See that fellow on the ledge there? Pin him, but try not to kill him."

Vidrald chuckled as I opened the pitch pot at my belt, selected an arrow, and twirled the tip in the viscous liquid.

His arrow flew true, pinning the Legionnaire to the boards of the wall. The man wailed and screamed, struggling to pull himself off the arrow. Vidrald's got a strong bow arm to begin with; give him some high-class arrows and a decent bow and he can bury a shaft so deep one has to break it to unpin anyone hit with it.

I can't get them quite so deep: less muscle mass. My aim is better though, so it all balances.

I nocked my arrow and Olaf held the flint ready to strike, but waiting for my command to do so. If the Legionnaires see the flames, they'll scatter. They reached their comrade and immediately made to help him, those with shields attempting to provide cover. There were no archers in the lot, and those beyond the wooden wall came around, in spite of their leader snarling at them to get back into position.

"Now."

Olaf struck a light against the pitch on my arrow. The arrow flew swift and true to the torch-urn hanging so innocuously above the oil-slicked ground. The torch-urn fell and shattered, lighting the ground beneath the Legionnaires' feet.

"Stormcloaks, to arms!" I bellowed, wishing I had a better shout.

It was all I needed.

The fire would not last long—just as long as the oil did—but while it lasted there was chaos. Vidrald and I had a little more trouble with our shots, especially once Galmar sailed in, but the damage was done. The ambush had shattered.

"Come on," I whispered, heading for the place where the walkway let down to where the Legionnaires had originally been, and rejoining Galmar and the lads on the upper level.

The reek of the dead turned my stomach, but I kept it off my face and the contents where they belonged. I'd smelled death and burning before. It turned poor Olaf pasty, however.

"Hmph. Not bad," Galmar grunted.

"Thank you, sir." I smirked inwardly. It wasn't 'please, let's make this clean and precise from now on!' but it was probably the best I'd get out of him.

It's something. I'll take it.

-L-

"There, do you see it?" Galmar breathed.

"I see it."

"Light it up."

Galmar and I had come to an unspoken agreement about the best way to proceed. If it was a clear thing and looked straight-forward, he barreled in. If it looked like there might be something strange or otherwise unpleasant… my opinion was asked and usually enacted. He wasn't so proud that he would endanger the mission rather than consult someone Ulfric specifically tasked to go.

The Crown was on the other side of a long room, resting on the head of a corpse that was a little too well-preserved. We'd run into more than one of those undead monstrosities, at which point the wisdom of weakness to fire poisons on my melee fighters' weapons in conjunction with flaming arrows became readily apparent—to Galmar, at least. My lads know I don't do anything without forethought or reason.

The undead were stupid, but fire is fire and even they—dead things that they were—recognized an enemy they couldn't really fight.

I sported a rather nasty slice across my armor and at one point had been forced too close to Geirlund which put me nearly in his blind spot. All he saw was movement out of the corner of his eye and had used his elbow to ward off what he thought was an undead thing, only to catch me across the face. Swollen and bruised, almost every movement of muscle was painful and it throbbed when I thought about it.

I was just lucky he didn't turn with sword in hand or break something.

"Vidrald."

He nodded, both of us taking out stances before swirling arrowheads in the pitch-pot.

Nocking my arrow, I stilled my mind. This was a long shot and required a little more planning and preparation of mind. "Olaf."

He struck the flint and the flame caught at the end of my arrow. It shot like a star down the gallery.

"Olaf," Vidrald said a second later, his arrow following mine. Mine sank into the chest to the body wearing the Crown, which burst into flames. The ones on either side began to move, the first caught by Vidrald's arrow, the second caught by one of mine. Both of us continued firing until they stopped moving.

"Clear." I announced, frowning down the length of a nocked arrow.

"Clear," Vidrald agreed after a few moments during which nothing moved.

We both lowered our bows, allowing Galmar to sweep forward towards the end of the gallery.

We archers followed him in front of the melee fighters. My usual tactic is to let the archers—soft-footed and able to attack at range—go first with the melee fighters rushing past them to establish a frontline once there's something for a frontline to face.

Galmar liked his archers to the back which made shooting difficult from time to time. Especially once he got going. If there was one thing I could say in the man's favor it was that he hit like a mammoth charging and if he hit a man that man did not get back up.

"Here it is," Galmar said reverently, picking the Crown off the draugr's head. The Crown suffered little fire damage, since the draugr wearing it had gone down so easily. Then again, if it's really made of something belonging to a dragon it probably is very fire resistant to begin with.

I slipped my backpack off and pulled out the folded fine linen and oilcloth I'd brought specifically to protect the crown during transport. It also makes for a better first impression, like opening a gift for New Life. "Here."

Galmar put the Crown into my cloth-covered hands, watching as I wrapped it in the linen, then in the oilcloth before presenting it back to him. "Grab one of the lads and take this back to Windhelm, fast as you can. We'll wait here in case the Legion has reinforcements on the way."

"Yes, sir." I inclined my head. "Ralof." Best to have someone who can get in close if there's fighting to be done. Frankly, I'd like to pull us all out and return to Windhelm in force, but this isn't really my operation.

-L-

Ralof was a pleasant traveling companion now that we weren't fleeing a burning wreck of a town (and a death sentence) or hunting down missing persons. Mostly we talked about harmless things—plans for New Life, how I was handling business without being in Whiterun, what he'd heard from his family in Riverwood.

"I'd like to have Olaf trained to the bow," I declared, once harmless topics wore off and the silence became unnerving amidst the snow.

"Goodness knows you keep him close enough to have picked up half the art by now," Ralof answered with a grin. "And to think he didn't like you."

"I hope so. I like having alternates in case of problems." This was not me being grim or fatalistic; people get hurt or get sick. There's no way around it. I'd just rather have two archers at any given time. "How did you like working with Galmar?"

"It was an interesting change of pace," Ralof answered tactfully. "I'm glad you two worked things out."

I nodded once. That's the problem, sometimes, when you mix a unit: you have people used to doing things a certain way tripping over each other. The really good ones find a compromise. The less able ones get people killed. So apparently Galmar and I fall into the category of 'really good ones.'

"So, what will you do once the war is over?" Ralof asked carelessly.

"I don't know. It depends on where the Thalmor are. That's my war." I knew he wanted to hear something else, that my war ended when the Stormcloaks' did, but I couldn't bring myself to lie to him. "What about you? Be a general under Skyrim's banner?"

Ralof shrugged. "I can think of worse things. Or maybe I'll just go back to Riverwood."

"It's quiet, there. Good place to go if you've had enough of war," I agreed.

"It is quiet," he agreed. "Restful."

-L-

"I owe Galmar a drink," Ulfric declared as he pulled the Jagged Crown out of its wrappings. "Speaking of whom—where is he?"

"He sent Ralof and me ahead. We met with Imperial resistance at Korvanjund. He stayed behind to mop up any reinforcements." And, possibly, to have a poke around the tomb. He saw a few things he seemed to want to investigate but the mission came first. I'd not expected such a… scholarly… interest from him.

Ulfric nodded. "Walk with me. Ralof, you're dismissed."

Ralof nodded before withdrawing, though he cast worried look back at the Jarl and me.

I walked alongside Ulfric's shoulder. "What did you do in the Legion?" he asked without preamble.

"I was in Supply."

"And I believe you've been in the mercantile business before joining the cause."

"Before my war with the Thalmor, yes, my lord."

His mouth twisted at the corner, as if he expected no less of a response. I wasn't in it for his cause and he knew it. "You're not really frontline material."

"I can serve there, if that's where I'm needed." He's leading up to something, and my heart jumped with the hope of it.

"There's no fast way to the Thalmor. You know that, don't you?" he stopped walking, and I followed suit.

"I understand, my jarl," I answered. "But it's good to stay busy in the meantime."

Ulfric studied me for a long moment, giving me a good look at the shrewdness behind the stereotypes popular in my former circles. He's no fool, whatever else he might be. "I'm trying to decide where to put you for best effect. Show me something I can base my decision off of."

Better than I hoped for. "May I keep my current unit?"

"You may, for now. And I'll give you an unusually high level of operational freedom. Don't get caught. Don't get dead. Do as you like. Dismissed."

I inclined my head, warmth kindling in my chest. "Thank you for your indulgence, my lord."

He wouldn't regret it. And I don't think he thought he would.


	14. Chapter 14

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

(Journal, Ulfric Stormcloak)

13 Evening Star

Dispatched the girl and her lads today. Now we'll see what she's made of and what she can do field-wise without restraint. Galmar won't be thrilled, but he's a blunt soul, bless him.

Not so this sharp girl. There's ice where her soul should be, and she's already displayed presence of mind in a tight situation. I don't know, yet, how to make the best use of her, but I'm certain if I don't come up with an answer she'll come up with one herself. I have that impression.

With regards to the broader picture though, I don't think she'll be with her unit long. Whatever I might say to anyone's face, I think I've got my answer to those Imperial puppet-masters. Galmar was grudging, but he had nothing but good things to say about her, finding her easy to work with… though, reading between the lines, she simply changed tactics for maneuvering him into situations of her choosing (or making).

I rather like the idea of a professional problem-solver.

Meanwhile, it looks as though Galmar will get what he wants next spring: Balgruuf refuses to bend his stiff neck and see reason. I don't understand why the man is so unreasonable. He hates the Thalmor as much as anyone (possibly barring the girl).

I swear, he's going soft in the head.

-L-

I reached the barracks in a state of high excitement. Full operational freedom—and a mandate of 'show me what you can do'—was more that I could have hoped for. It also confirmed in my mind that Ulfric wasn't the fool or the brainless hulk he's often portrayed as. Re-evaluating his character was an unpleasant exercise, but it was necessary.

Or would be: I refuse to allow an unpleasant necessity to ruin a perfectly wonderful mood.

My first plan was to see about letting Jarl Skald the Elder know about the skirmish in the Pale—not myself, because whom am I? He does need to know (if only to feed the idea that the Legion may be spying out the lay of the land, and Skald is a supporter of Ulfric's movement). A little strategic suspicion never goes amiss.

I felt lightheaded at the prospect.

The frontlines are an honorable place, but I'd rather have effective frontlines than any other kind.

No, the first thing I need to do is think. Think, and take a few deep breaths. Start small. But the important thing, right now, is information. Because without information, how can plans be made? Without information, how will I know where to turn my eyes (or arrows)?

That's a question Ulfric should be asking himself: without proper intelligence, how is he supposed to win this war?

"Leandra?"

I turned to find Ralof falling into step with me. "We've been given operational freedom," I breathed, wondering if my cheeks looked as pink as they felt. "I—are you alright?"

He looked more a little uncomfortable, as if on the verge of doing something he really didn't want to do. "Yes, I'm fine. Ah… there's no really good way to do this." He shifted uneasily, and looked around at things not me.

My stomach dropped as my brows creased. He's not… quitting… is he?

Ralof produced and held out a sheaf of folded papers, neatly tied together with ribbon. "It's better you hear about these from me. They're letters."

I took them awkwardly, my stomach returning to its proper place while my concern morphed into outright puzzlement. "To whom should I pass them on?" Because that was the only logical explanation I could come up with.

Ralof actually turned pink at the neck, a fact almost hidden by his collar. "You don't. They're… for you. I just didn't send them. The one you got was just the one I actually sent. The rest are right here."

He looked so uncomfortable that _I_ began to feel uncomfortable. I could see around the ribbon, which was a recent thing—the marks on the edge of the papers indicated they'd been held together by string or twine previously. "I see…" I'd been puzzled by the briefness of the one letter I received. It made Gerdur sound like she was overstating his concern.

"I just figured it might be awkward, you know, and then I heard you'd left Solitude and one thing led to another." He shifted from foot to foot, clearly looking or an excuse to leave without being abrupt or change the subject, or seem like he was running away.

Or, perhaps, confirmation that I didn't find him and his unsent correspondences unsettling or downright disturbing.

I looked at the fat sheaf of letters, unsure what to think. Letters to me? "Thank you." It was all I could think of for a moment. "Thank you for thinking of me."

He gave me a half-hearted smile. "Better you have them from me," he repeated. "Thorold'll turn it into something creepy, intentionally or not."

I had to smile at this, just a little, as I tucked them into the ditty pouch at my hip and took a deep breath. "That he might."

"So, operational freedom!" Ralof prompted, clapping his hands together (the more enthusiastically as it was a change of subject) latching onto the most everyday topic he could get.

"More or less what we've been doing until I can get a few things into place," I clarified, my butterflies returning. "This is going to be _marvelous_. Just wait and see."

Ralof's smile came back, as though he saw something that pleased him greatly. Whatever it was, he didn't comment and I didn't ask. He simply sat down beside me and listened.

-L-

I read Ralof's letters over the next few days. I wasn't really sure what to think at first, except to be surprised I'd made such a strong impression as to warrant such devoted attempts at communication. I found his letters sweet rather than creepy, like a hand reaching out hesitantly to touch my own.

The sad part was that he hadn't seemed to realize that the girl he was writing to died in Northwatch Keep. It bothered me to think he'd realize it in the not too far future. The unpretentious open nature of the letters—which were more a chronicle of his life than anything else—left me with the odd feeling that I knew him better than he knew me.

It was an unnerving feeling, but not necessarily in a bad way. In fact, the next time we talked, it seemed to unlock conversation, expanding the topics available for discussion. It made for good conversation, leaving me with doors he could open or I could close.

-L-

(Field report, delivered _ex post facto_ )

Forwarded To: Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm (Care of Steward Jorleif)

From: Leandra M. Ashlynn

My Jarl:

I am penning this message that you might be apprised of current events.

On 18 Evening Star the unit encountered an Imperial Legion observation post in the Kynesgrove wilderlands. This is the second Imperial observation post that has been found in Eastmarch since my entry into your service. Papers recovered from the post indicate a true Imperial outpost in the southern region of the Hold. My unit and I are on our way to investigate. I will forward a follow up of this message once the mission concludes.

-L-

(Field report, delivered _ex post facto_ )

Forwarded To: Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm (Care of Steward Jorleif)

From: Leandra M. Ashlynn

My Jarl:

I am penning this message that you might be apprised of current events.

On 25 Evening Star the unit encountered an Imperial Legion camp in the vicinity of the Dwemer ruins known as Mzulft. During their Saturnalia celebrations, the unit attacked and killed all but the senior officer who has been turned over to our commanding officer, pending interrogation. The unit itself has suffered no casualties and few injuries. Information within the camp suggests the camp will be re-manned midway through Morning Star. It is my humble suggestion that the army to have men in place to intercept—prisoners would be preferable for interrogation purposes.

Please find enclosed a map containing notations about possible similar camps elsewhere in Stormcloak-sympathetic territories. Under my mandate, my unit and I will make investigations after the New Year. We will be in Windhelm between 29 Evening Star (today) and 3 Morning Star for rest and reorganization.

Leandra M. Ashlynn

-L-

(Hand-delivered by originator)

Evening Star 28

To: Stormcloak Quartermaster, Windhelm

From: Leandra M. Ashlynn

To the Quartermaster: please find enclosed a sketchmap leading to an Imperial camp within Eastmarch (in the vicinity south of the Dwemer ruins known as Mzulft). Materiel from what was apparently a long-term mission remains available for salvage.

-L-

It was my first New Life Festival away from Solitude. It wasn't a bad one, either, compared to what I would have expected though with fewer festivities and parties. My lads and I were in Windhelm for the occasion which was good for morale. Units, apparently, tended to treat one another as stand-in family, since few of the garrison had actual family in Windhelm.

I had a good deal on my mind; namely, a supposed Imperial outpost in the Rift and another in the Pale, both of which I was eager to displace (not necessarily myself, but via the Holds' own personnel… unless invited) and neither of which I had troubled my lads about just yet. It was the twenty-eighth when we got back to Windhelm and I didn't like to ruin their holiday mood with grim tasks for the New Year.

Not that anyone felt particularly grim. The atmosphere was more shock that there was an Imperial camp of any sort in Eastmarch, let alone and observation post _and_ a proper war camp. It would have taken some effort and discretion to filter the legionnaires in, let alone to supply them. It looks, to me, as though the Legion intends to start the conflict with decisive attacks come spring.

That's only supposition, but it is what it is.

As to the festival, it was a pleasant enough distraction. There was a lot of drinking, I won't lie, and to my surprise those of the garrison present were packed into the Jarl's audience chamber for the midday meal. He was present, himself, which seemed to lift some of the lower spirits among his army.

I could see why he's always been called a good general, even by his detractors.

I had both the satisfaction of seeing that I'd selected the right gifts for the right lad and the surprise that such effort was put by them into finding tokens for me. Mostly they were things of a practical nature, just as my gifts had been. Maybe that's the point of a soldier's New Life Festival: a gift makes your fellow's life easier in the year to come. Help keep a life where it belongs.

I still couldn't stand the _Age of Oppression_ when sung in the tavern, but I could overlook my discontent at hearing it over the midday meal. Again. And again. And again until I was ready to vomit.

I still felt alone in a crowded room, but it wasn't as bad as at other times.

I wasn't sure what to do, though, about Ralof's whispered 'happy New Life.' He'd moved as if to kiss my cheek but thought better of it, merely giving my hand a friendly squeeze.

Marcus' harsh words echoed in my head and made me bite my lower lip. It was hard to leave the festivities without letting Ralof know he'd inadvertently kicked something that made me feel it necessary that I leave. I had to wipe away tears twice on the way back to the barracks.

And part of me knew it was because some part of me that wasn't frozen solid wanted his attention.

-L-

Weeks of messages going to and from the Nightgate Inn had left Hadring, the proprietor, feeling more than a little overworked and rather curt. He wouldn't turn my coin down, but I could tell that being my mail reception hub was not something he'd ever intended.

So I'd spent the day after New Life (all units in Windhelm were released from duties for the day) writing letters, which I posted the next day via a courier from Windhelm—although he was still to take responses to the Nightgate Inn.

The time had come to start strengthening ties to my various contacts throughout the Province. Most of them were innocuous enough, which was a fine place to start. It would be harder to maintain the fiction I presented to Ysolda once spring arrived.

For the future though, I needed a faster, better, more reliable system than couriers. The answer was obvious: cut out the human element altogether.

Wuunferth the Unliving was Windhelm's court mage. He was not a popular character in Windhelm; the general belief was that he had sold his soul to a Daedra—no one seemed sure which one, just that he surely had. Personally, after my first look at him, I decided he was just a particularly ambitious, lacking in scruples scholar (not that a lack of scruples is always a bad thing) who was tired of being interrupted and didn't really care what people in general thought.

Unlike me, he didn't rejoice that said individuals _could_ think.

"Whatever you've heard I can do," he announced shortly, "it's probably true. Now, what is it?" He turned around and recognized me, scowled fiercely from under his black hood as if expecting me to scuttle out of his workroom with an apology about having the wrong place.

"I need a way to send messages back and forth between myself and my business partner."

"Use a courier, that's what they're for."

"I would rather not trust a man who can be bought," I answered patiently.

"Then go yourself. Why are you bothering me with this? Can't you see I'm busy?" He demanded, waving to what looked like a dozen unfinished projects.

"I'm bothering you because you're the only person here who can come up with a plan. If money won't motivate you—and, scholar that you are, I don't suggest for a moment that it would—then tell me what you would prefer. I'm sure I can get it. I hardly expect something for nothing."

Wuunferth cocked his head as he examined me. "I'll write you a list. Fill it, and I have an idea how to fix your easily-bought courier problem." He found a sheet of paper and a quill, then scribbled a list which he thrust gracelessly at me. "Now, I have work to do."

You'd think we'd never worked together.

"As do I. Thank you for your time, Master Wuunferth."

-L-

(Field report, delivered _ex post facto_ )

Forwarded To: Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm (Care of Steward Jorleif)

From: Leandra M. Ashlynn

My Jarl:

I am penning this message that you might be apprised of current events.

On 6 Morning Star the unit encountered an Imperial Legion camp in the Rift, south of Ivarstead. Although it would have been preferable to purge the camp, it was felt impolitic to do so as the Rift is not Eastmarch. A message was sent to Laila Law-Giver, as well as to Ivarstead. Although the Jarl may not choose to act, the citizenry of Ivarstead seemed unnerved and displeased. With rumors spreading, any discretion the Legion hoped to maintain has been effectively stripped from them.

Although reluctant to destroy the outpost, a suitable distraction was arranged, allowing for the following documents to be removed. Although fairly mundane, they and the presence of these two war camps—however well away from the Hold capitals—imply that the Legion has plans for a spring campaign.

Leandra M. Ashlynn

-L-

"I don't know how you found this and I don't really want to," Wuunferth declared, regarding the potion in its bottle. "It's supposed to be _unobtainable_."

"I know someone in Chorrol," I answered with a shrug. That's one of the things about my position: I have plenty to do while waiting for items to come in. Though, again, I found Hadring wearied at having to handle my mail (why a not-so-delicate suggestion that if I intend to have packages and the like shipped to him, I was going to start paying a higher rate for the trouble it caused him).

"Well, if you stay this good in getting things, my lab is open to you. So to speak," he added hastily.

The list of items he'd given me had varied from the commonplace to one that was surely on there to be impossible—probably meant to get me out of his hair forever or be a point he could complain about.

It's impossible to get in _Skyrim_. I have connections. That was something I learned in Supply: always know someone who can get to things you can't. His 'impossible to get' item, in the end, cost two bottles of snowberry brandy from the Brandy-Mug farm outside of Windhelm and a cave bear pelt sleeping fur.

I had no intention of telling _him_ that.

"So, about my problem?" I prompted.

Wuunferth half closed his eyes, calculating. "Write down exactly where it's going then come back in two days. I'll have it ready."

I write down Ysolda of Whiterun (and a rough location of where she was, in case he needed it) then took my leave.

-L-

(Delivered by courier)

20 Morning Star

Ysolda of Whiterun

Leandra—

I was really starting to worry about you. Imagine my surprise when I opened my door this morning only to have this hawk hop in like it was expected. Imagine my further surprise to get your letter. I think it's a marvelous way to correspond, and so much faster than couriers (I'll be sending you a needless message, since this one really needs a courier)! I'm not usually comfortable with magicka, but this is truly marvelous.

On that note—I hope things in Windhelm are going well. It's a bit disconcerting to have you running a segment of business so quietly out there. I can't argue with your experience, just know that I worry about you amongst all those Stormbcloak brutes. I don't think I could do it.

Oh, I have a list of things I'd like you to see if you can get in Windhelm for a contact of mine in Markarth—it's glorious to pen those words, so let me do it again. _A contact of mine_ —Markarth is having some supply problems, and I promised Muiri I'd see what I could do for her. Anyway, here's the list:

2 Soul Gems, grand

6 Saber Cat pelts (it's the good season but they get bought up so quickly!)

1 Ice Wraith's worth of ice wraith teeth (don't know where you'd get it, but if it's available, I know you'll come through!)

3 measures frost salts

Also find enclosed my (belated) New Life gift for you: one violet gown/shoe ensemble with amethyst pendant. I saw them, thought of you, and since it's been such a lucrative quarter… there you have it. Enjoy.

Ysolda

P.S. I love the red outfit. It caused quite the stir, the word in fashion being 'daring!'


	15. Chapter 15

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

Markarth was a city as full of fear and doubt as it was Thalmor and Legionnaires. One could feel the tension, even in the Hag's Cure, where I found Ysolda's friend Muiri. She was an unhappy girl, her face deeply lined with sadness and regret.

"You… wouldn't happen to have any news out of Windhelm? Ysolda said you did some business on that side of the country," she asked meekly.

"Perhaps. I'm not sure what you're looking for."

"Clan Shatter-Shield has had… problems. I was wondering if you'd heard anything about that," she answered cagily.

"Oh, yes. They're distraught: both daughters taken by the Butcher. It's amazing that he hasn't been stopped." It _is_ amazing and is on my list of 'operational freedom activities.' Some people might argue my priorities were out of order, but technically I don't have authority to operate within Windhelm, since Windhelm had a city watch that should be handling that sort of thing.

Muiri nodded. "How-how is the family? We were friends, once, you understand my concern," she added hastily with a forced smile.

"I do. I don't know them personally, but none of the survivors have turned up dead in the river or anywhere else as far as I know."

"I see. That's… that's good." Muiri bit her lip. "You-you were here for more than just answering my curiosity. What can I help you with?"

"Firstly, here's the shipment Ysolda promised you. The inventory is at the bottom. Secondly, I need to purchase a few reagents from you."

"Oh?" Muiri took the parcel and stowed it. She laid her hands flat on the counter, hoisting on a pleasant smile. "What can I help you with today?"

"I need beeswax, two units powdered eye of sabercat," that's the only way one ever finds it in an apothecary, thank goodness for that! "And four units of juniper berries."

Muiri nodded, marked and began filling little linen bags with the requisite ingredients, which I paid for pleasantly. Following that, I took an order for anything she—or rather the proprietress, Bothela—needed.

-L-

The trick to any successful infiltration, apart from looking the part, is not drawing attention to oneself. If one looks the part and looks as though one belongs it is less likely that one will be discovered. Especially in a busy Keep where personnel are shuffled about to keep from becoming too familiar—that is to say noticeable—to the wrong people.

Markarth is a city of paranoia. No one wants to be noticed.

So when I entered the kitchen, meekly, and began taking orders, no one noticed.

No one noticed it the first day I did it, no one noticed the second, third, or fourth day.

On the fifth day, all was in readiness. On the fifth day, my turn in the roster to bring a certain Justicar his evening wine came.

Ondolemar, Chief Justicar in Markarth, was a highly unpleasant fellow—loathsome being the best descriptor—who had the misfortune of holding his nose so high that if he went out in the rain he would drown in it and who took no notice of the lesser beings that saw to his various requirements.

He was known, in the kitchens, for taking a glass of Jazbay Honeywine—a strong wine that represented a Reach aspiration to become the Black-Briar Meadery of spirits for more elevated palates—before going to bed. It was the last thing he did before changing out of his robes of office.

Jazbay grapes—ironically most common in Eastmarch—when mixed with powdered eye of sabercat produce a poison that attacks one's health virulently. Honeycomb (which is a simplified term for honey and beeswax together) with powder of bee (as in the honey-making variety) produces a poison that drains one's stamina. For a drink taken at bedtime, the drain of stamina would go largely unnoticed since the purpose of the wine is to slow the mind and help it compose for sleep.

My plan was simple: use the wine's innate ingredients. The beeswax would serve as a binding agent for the powders; the wine would eat at the wax, releasing the ingredients one by one. That is to say, the upper portion of the cup held the powder of bee while the lower portion the powdered sabercat eye—the latter of which would have more time to release and to grow potent. A thinner application of wax would allow the upper portion to release more quickly, since the wine needed time to eat through the wax to release the reagents.

Even better, as long as he did it while the wine was still freshly-poured, he could check it for poison all he wanted and nothing would show.

Poison is, I have heard it said, often the tool of females. When one is dealing with a strength disadvantage, or when one is not a mage and seeks to kill someone who is, poison is an excellent tool as long as one can ensure it goes into the right mouth. I would have preferred a contact poison, but did not feel confident in my ability to produce one and use it to best effect.

"Hurry up, girl," Ondolemar snapped. He was irritable because I was half a minute later than I should have been—which was intentional. He likes a well-regulated lifestyle.

And he guzzled the first draught to put himself back on schedule, and took his time with the second glass.

Poison was also my preferred method because I could oversee the effects for some minutes as I puttered around putting this and that to rights as was expected of me—because the servant always takes the tray away with him or her. It wouldn't do for an almighty Justicar to have dirty dishes in his room overnight or take them to the kitchen himself.

Two glasses of wine before bed.

As he finished the other glass, he yawned mightily and dragged himself over to his armoire.

I stacked the dishes, slipped the small bottle of invisibility I'd purchased ages ago from Arcadia 'just in case the roads prove too dangerous for me.' While his back was turned, I drank it down. I opened and shut the door, still holding the dishes. Then I waited as the Justicar changed into his nightclothes and staggered to his bed.

After a few moments, he began to gasp softly and seize as the poison at the upper level of his cup took effect, the first poison preventing him from doing anything to save his own life. I waited. And waited. And waited some more, watching the process with satisfaction.

When I felt certain he was dead, I replaced the dishes where they would have been had I not moved them—let them find the poison—then forced into Ondolemar's hand a piece of Stormcloak blue silk as the final touch. No chance of anyone not knowing who was responsible… in a broad sense.

I took a moment to go through his things. He's a paranoid bastard, and apparently kept important papers close to hand. I glanced at them, then took the whole sheaf. It's already identified this is a 'Stormcloak' kill. Why not steal his papers into the bargain? No one would ever believe the real reason I'm here.

Information is information, after all. I stuffed the papers into the first journal or ledger I found and carried both away with me.

-L-

"Where _have_ you been?" Ralof demanded, looking both relieved that I'd finally showed up and upset that I'd disappeared with the barest 'something's come up' before I left. I didn't worry about disappearing with my 'operational freedom' mandate.

I smiled and settled down beside him at the table, resting reassuring (if cold) fingertips on his arm just below the sleeve of his mail. "I was in Markarth. We discussed that trip, remember? Or, rather, he and I did," I indicated the slack-jawed Stormcloak who made the bet with me. "You owe me one septim and, to prove that I did go, regard a signature from Ondolemar's hand on a book from his private collection."

I blocked the information on the page, but left Ondolemar's signature on the flyleaf visible.

Silence, shocked and profound, ensued as I showed the book to my lads before putting it back in my bag. "Shall I share the details?" I offered, pouring myself a glass of mead from the pitcher on the table.

"Do you have a death wish?" Ralof asked wearily.

"I was perfectly safe. The fool didn't bother to notice _lesser beings_ and Markarth shuffles the housekeeping staff to make sure it stays that way," I answered simply.

"It cost you more to go there and come back! What was the point?" the Stormcloak who challenged me asked, putting a coin on the table and sliding it over to me. He looked highly discomforted, though.

"To prove a point." Nitwit.

"And that's all you'll get about it from her," Geirlund declared. "Leandra, girl, promise you won't do anything like this again."

"I certainly will not. It's a fool's promise. But I will promise that I shall always be judicious in accepting such high-risk missions. Will that do?" He's a kind fellow—all five of them are… and Olaf, I suppose—but I'm not the kind of woman who can stay safe or be content with regular army work. I'll do it; I'll stand by them in battle as often as I can.

But I would rather they stay alive and if that means pulling strings from shadows then so be it. Even if they don't understand why I do what I do.

"Something happens to you and it will kill my mother. Ralof, you talk some sense into her," Avulstein encouraged Ralof. "She listens to you even if she pretends not to."

"I don't _like_ her leaving herself open to risk," Ralof agreed, then rested his fingers on the back of my hand.

I had to resist the urge to slide my hand away.

"But you must have me confused with someone persuasive. You can't ask Leandra not to be Leandra—and if you didn't expect her to want to put her subtlety to good use then you don't know her at all."

I wanted to edge away from him at that. The pride and admiration—still laced with weary concern and disapproval, because one can accept without approving—in his voice made me feel oddly contaminated. Not contaminated _by him_ but as if I would somehow contaminate him.

Ralof is a good man, and a kind one. I haven't mistaken his gentle evidences that, if I were amenable, he would be interested in more than just comradeship or friendship. He would never push, never be blunt about it… but the hand is out if I want to acknowledge it.

I've done manslaughter, I've murdered, I've lied, and manipulated. I can see myself doing much worse. I have this _hate_ inside me that will never go away because I won't let it.

As fond as I am of him, how can I drag him down with me? Because I've read enough to know that vendettas like mine catch up with a person eventually. We don't get happy or settle-down endings.

Why doesn't he know that?

As he spoke, his hand seemed to burn my skin, searing and scalding it. "I need to write a report about this," I declared thickly, withdrawing from his touch and wondering how he could be so blind as not to know what kind of person I am. He's a good man fighting for a cause he believes in—not the party line, but because he _believes_ it's the right thing to do.

I wondered how he could bear to touch me.

He let me go when I declared my attention to depart, his tough fingers sliding gently across my skin.

-L-

"What is this?" Ulfric asked, regarding the dossier I'd handed him.

"Bellona of Falkreath, formerly a member of Arkay's Resters, parents unknown. She was raised by the Order of Julianos when she exhibited signs of magicka at a young age," I answered briskly. "These days she's known as the Dragonborn. She was behind a rather lively party given by the Thalmor back in Evening Star, during which—so I gather—she burned down half the Embassy with a kind of fire that was not easily controlled by the Thalmor response. She's recognized as a Thane of Whiterun, but I think that was more a political move on Jarl Balgruuf's part than anything else—but that is, I hasten to add, my opinion on the matter and not a supported or supportable fact."

Ulfric looked at me over the edge of the dossier. "Where did you get this?"

"I have many connections, most of which are innocuous enough," I evaded. "I know the old lore about the Dragonborn and assumed it would be of value to you. Should you wish to contact her, she maintains a home in Whiterun called Breezehome, which is manned by the housecarl she doesn't make use of. Lydia the Shield."

"Do you know them?"

"No, my lord. Not personally."

Ulfric regarded the dossier again. "This is exceptional work. How accurate is it?"

"That's the thing about information, it's often fluid. However, to the best of my knowledge this is accurate and genuine at the moment."

"You have someone on the inside." It was a question even if he didn't ask it like one. "In Markarth, I mean."

A slow smile crept across my features, but I stopped it before it became a smug smirk. "I _was_ the someone on the inside in Markarth. I had to make sure the poison worked."

"What poison?" By now, Ulfric was scowling… but as one waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for a punchline.

"Because I had a single-coin bet with a fellow Stormcloak—or several—that I couldn't sneak into Markarth and take out a high-profile target without getting caught. They said it couldn't be done. I proved that it could. On my way back the rumor mill's currents overtook me: the Dragonborn was there at about the same time as I was—she must have been coming in as I was leaving—and gave the Thalmor quite the thrashing."

"Who was your target?" Ulfric asked, the scowl fading to something bordering on being impressed.

"Head Justicar Ondolemar. I poisoned his evening wine."

Ulfric let out a bark of laughter, lowering the dossier as if expecting me to say 'just kidding.'

My bland expression sapped the humor. "A contact of the innocuous sort is going to send me a copy of the _Markarth Forerunner_ if they release a special edition. I doubt they will—it's quite the problem spot right now. The Thalmor may even shift their major presence away from Solitude."

"Easier to bottle them up in Markarth, isn't it?" Ulfric asked sagely. "With a lot of angry citizens."

The smile that curved my lips was faint but genuine. The book I'd recovered from Northwatch Keep was suitably inflammatory, if it could be noised about properly. Properly, and at the right time. "The insurrection that followed the Dragonborn's antics was not successful. However, it has stirred up the resentment of the populace against the Thalmor—not against the Dragonborn. They see her as a true hero—ironically just like one out of legend.

"If the Thalmor seal the city and attempt to use it as a retreat, they may find themselves faced with an army of peasants with pitchforks. Such is often the result of alienating local populaces." I hoped he would read the hint and take it for what it was.

"You move quickly."

"It's winter, my lord. The season of spies and assassins. But I think you'll find—if you consult my unit's commander—that your freedom of operation mandate has been adequately made use of." I inclined my head at this in an indication of gratitude for the leeway. After all, Avulstein is in charge; I simply advise and make suggestions. Technically.

Ulfric studied me for a few minutes. "I'm having your unit's activities suspended as of now. While they're on leave, I have a challenge for you, something the City Guard hasn't been able to stop. Succeed and we'll talk in earnest about your unique skills. Fail, and nothing changes."

Except that he would lose confidence in me. "What would you have, my lord?"

"I want you to find the Butcher and sort him out. I received word that he killed again last night. It must end." He spoke calmly and firmly, as if pressing a finger into clay.

I found myself smiling at this. "I shall make it my priority, my lord. May I begin immediately, or have you further need of me?"

Ulfric cocked his head, then indicated I was free to leave.

I bowed my head and withdrew. This could be complicated. Fortunately, I like complications.


	16. Chapter 16

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this chapter!

-L-

The latest girl body had not yet been moved—possibly at the Jarl's command. The scene was gruesome, but the cold of Windhelm proved a boon in that it allowed greater preservation of the crime scene. Blood had frozen over, but it lay in the pools and spatters it fell in.

"Who was she?" I asked the nearest guard.

"Susanna, from Candlehearth Hall," he answered, looking shaken behind his helm. "Didn't really know her, but she served me a drink just the other night."

She was a pretty girl, apart from the mutilating wounds across her body, blonde with the fair complexion traditional to Nords.

"How many have there been killed like this?" And what do they have in common? Because a serial killer isn't hitting random people—that's 'mass murderer' and that ilk don't tend to be as discriminating. This is, of course, common sense and having killed my share of people.

"Four. Who are you, asking all these questions?" the guard asked suspiciously.

"I am Jarl Ulfric's fixer of problems and this is the problem he wants fixed," I answered calmly. "You can ask him, if you like."

No guard would ever do something like that and the news was apparently to the guard's liking for he relaxed at once. "Men are stretched thin because of the war. We just don't have the manpower to… well. She's the fourth girl, they're always young, killed at night, body torn up and left out for the carrion-eaters."

I moved closer to the body, regarded the thin line across her throat. It didn't go all the way around and was too fine for any dagger. Also, it was not the same kind of injury as the rest of her body sported, being so delicate and not cutting as deeply. "May I touch her?" I asked the Priest of Arkay hovering near the body.

"Why?" she asked guardedly.

"Would you say this is too neat for a knife?" I asked, pointing to the damage to her throat.

"You've good eyes. _They_ don't believe it." The priest immediately shifted the stiffening body onto its side. "I've seen this before," the priest said. "Strangler's cord. Note the bruising. All the victims have been like that."

"So they couldn't scream for help?"

The priest dropped her voice and leaned in close. "I don't want to discuss it out here, but you seem to be smarter and more attentive than those armored clods. If you're really the Jarl's fixer, you should come talk to me in the Hall of the Dead. You should also know there isn't enough blood here for her to have been killed here. This was simply where she was dumped."

"That is useful." I regarded the scene. There was blood, yes, but I could see how there would be less than expected. I remembered the way the wounds of my own victims gushed—particularly Endarie. There just wasn't enough blood. I cast around on the ground. If the Windhelm cold froze the blood here, if there's more it would be frozen, too.

As I turned about, I noticed several people hanging around. Most watched the body, looking grim or chattering nervously among themselves. However, watching the conclave at distance was one ragged beggar. As soon as I caught her eye she tightened her jaw and slipped away. No one even noticed her.

I caught up with her at the brazier outside Candlehearth. She gave the impression of having been there all day, trying to keep warm in her rags and tatters. "Hello."

She forced a smile. "A coin, kind lady? For a hot meal?"

I produced one and handed it over.

"Blessings of Stendarr upon you." She secreted the coin within her ragged clothes, but the lines of tension in her face didn't ease.

I pulled out two more coins. "I think you saw something. Tell me. If your words bear out, I'll give you the same again." It was as I said it that I remembered my childhood stories. Specifically the Grey Fox of Cyrodiil and how he was rumored to protect the beggars of the province… and how they paid for that protection in the only coin they had: information. I also remembered my education and the tale of Wheedle and Namira.

The beggar lowered her voice. "Nothing to hear. Had a cord 'round her neck. She couldn't get him loose. Eventually… she stopped fighting. He picked her up and bundled her off."

"Was he human or an elf, could you tell?"

"Didn't see no ears on him."

"Did you follow to see where he went?"

"Do you think me a fool?" she demanded shrilly, eyes growing wide.

"No. Where did this happen?"

The beggar shifted as I closed my hand over the remaining coins. "Up by the White Phial. There's an alleyway, hard to see in it. He dragged her off towards the Hall of the Dead."

I handed over the coins. "If you hear or see anything else, think of me. Thank you for your help."

The beggar nodded, then withdrew as if anxious to be out of sight. I can't say I blame her.

I returned to the crime scene and looked around again. The guards were helping the priestess load the dead girl onto a stretcher.

 _There isn't enough blood here for her to have been killed here._

She wasn't killed here, but she was carried here, and she's bloody all over. There has to have been some evidence of passage.

I headed to the White Phial and see what could be seen. I found the blood trail—noticed it only because I was attentive—I was looking for on the steps leading towards the marketplace. The trail eventually ended at a house which seemed empty given the lack of lights in the windows.

I didn't linger, or give the impression of taking more notice of this house than of any of the others—it let out into a kind of square between four houses. From this square was a narrow passage letting out into the courtyard of the Palace of the Kings. So whoever lived—or lives—there is someone of some consequence.

-L-

Jorleif was Jarl Ulfric's steward and although the Jarl cast me an interrogatory glance, I shook my head.

I smiled though: I don't think he honestly expected me to solve the problem this fast.

"Jorleif."

"Yes?" he looked over at me as I perched beside him on the bench at table.

"His Lordship appointed me to look into the Butcher murders—"

"Yes, I know." He spoke briskly, but without being brusque.

"There's a house in the Valunstrad District, in the northwestern corner—"

"Ah, yes. Hjerim," he shook his head. "Home of the first girl to die, little Friga Shatter-Shield. It's empty, now. The Shatter-Shields wanted nothing to do with the place after their other daughter, Nilsine, was killed. It's deeded to Jarl Ulfric, now."

"Do you have a key?" I asked, explaining briefly about the blood trail I discovered leading to it and my concern that there might be something significant. After all, Susanna wasn't killed in the graveyard.

"I… of course. Of course I do. And I shall expect it _back_."

"Property of the Crown, I know," I agreed.

Jorleif got up, left the dining hall, and returned a few minutes later with an ornate key which he handed to me. "I wish you luck with this," he offered as I got to my feet.

"Either I'll find him or he finds me." Because surely, sooner or later, the killer will find out Ulfric has a new investigator and while I'm not screaming about it, I'm not being as subtle as perhaps I could be. Part of that is because I have at least one advantage lacking in the ones he's probably sent: I'm female. I meet at least one of the criteria this killer is looking for.

-L-

I didn't go to Hjerim right away: I wanted to see if, by waiting, someone tried to clean up the blood that led me there. Maybe someone would see something, maybe not. Maybe I'd run into the killer in Hjerim after dark or maybe not.

"So, four victims," I declared to the Priestess as I entered the Hall of the Dead.

"Three," she answered, spreading a cloth over Susanna's body. "They say four but it's only three. That we know of, anyway. With this kind of killer, there are usually more than can be accounted for." She shook her head, expression somber. "Come, sit with me."

She led me to a little room, cross between a bedchamber and a sitting room. "See, the third victim was sister to the first. Didn't surprise anyone when she turned up with garrote marks, stabbed up and dumped. Problem was the garrote was used _after_ she was dead, when she wasn't thrashing around. Killed with one of the knife-wounds which the Butcher never does. He wouldn't want to damage his prize prematurely. Also, the weapon was all wrong."

"Do you call him 'the Butcher' because he's a serial killer or because of the way he carves up his victims?" I asked, settling into the chair she indicated and considering this new information.

The Priestess smiled wryly. "Funny you should phase it that way. You see, each corpse is missing… parts. Muscle. Bones. The second girl was drained of almost all her blood. That sort of thing. It looks to me like they're being harvested. And there's only one reason for something like that." The Priestess shivered at the thought.

"A necromancer," I answered to the Priestess' affirmative nod. Necromancers are among the foulest of those gifted with magicka. They tend to have no respect for anyone but themselves.

"Doing something unholy, I have no doubt," she growled, shaking her head. "Asked for someone to come look into it, but haven't heard back. They must be unusually busy."

I repressed a smile. Priests of Arkay and necromancers have long and bloody history together. Usually it's one killing the other. If the strength of disdain on the woman's face was physical strength, she'd bludgeon the Butcher into jelly and he wouldn't be able to do anything about it.

I did wonder who 'they' might be, but only as a passing thing since I'm the one doing something about this affair at the moment.

"There's another thing I found odd. The wounds on the bodies aren't made with knives—except for poor Nilsine; the wounds were so clean, but more delicate than those seen on the Butcher's victims. Those are not unlike the cuts made with embalming tools. Specifically, and given the less precise shape than those I would leave on a body, I'd say something old and looking much like this." She got up and brought in a curved blade for my inspection. "I don't know who in Windhelm would have something like that besides me, of course. And, no, I'm not missing any equipment."

"So you think Nilsine doesn't figure into this at all?" I asked.

"I'm sure she doesn't. Poetic justice though, one killer fobbing off their work onto another. Personally, my money's on the Dunmer. She was sniffing around before Nilsine was killed, said she was looking into the Butcher. Why should she, hm? Her accent wasn't Windhelm or anywhere in the Hold. Anyway, she comes in, asks her questions and disappears after Nilsine died. Nearly killed Torva when she heard her other daughter had been killed. Guards thought it must be some kind of family vendetta for a while—quite forgetting the girl in between Friga and Nilsine—and not the work of the Butcher." The Priestess sniffed at this.

"Tell me about this Dunmer." The beggar said she didn't see any ears and that the killer was a man. The Priestess says this particular killing is the odd one out.

"Little thing, big eyes, nothing special. Except… she whispered, like her voice had been damaged. Apart from that, she didn't stand out in my mind except that it was odd for her to be out of the Grey Quarter. Goodness knows they don't take an interest in the rest of Windhelm. And, again, I'm pretty sure she wasn't local to begin with."

Interesting… although not apropos. I'll keep it in mind, though, just in case.

"Were the girls… damaged… in any other ways but with the blades?" The question as delicate, because I sometimes asked the same thing of darkness and silence about Lucinda.

The priestess gave me a wry smile. "Would you be surprised to learn that they _weren't_? In fact, except for being dead and carved up, the wounds seem to be as minimized as much as possible. Someone was _careful_ with them,even if he was going to kill them."

Now that is odd… and interesting.

-L-

"This is just creepy," Ralof announced as we slipped into Hjerim. "I'm glad you had the sense not to come here alone."

It was an empty house. It reeked of blood, though.

"So am I." I lit the lanterns we'd brought, since the house had nothing for the provision of light and handed one to Ralof. "Alright. Anything off or interesting. Anything out of place… "

I'm not easily disturbed, but being a woman and knowing the Butcher's victims always are, I didn't want to go near a place he might lair up without some kind of backup. A man prone to attacking from behind with a garrote is not someone I would want to bait without some kind of plan or contingency.

"Mead bottles," Ralof noted.

"Pots and pans in the kitchen—looks like they haven't been used for a while."

"If all the furniture's gone, why's _this_ still here?" Ralof asked from somewhere out of sight.

I found him examining one of two wardrobes with a dark look on his face. "Good question… do you smell that?" It was difficult not to sound squeamish. The scent of blood was thicker here than elsewhere and there was something mingled with it.

"I smell it. This has been nailed to the wall. Look." He gave it the wardrobe a jerk and made a show of trying to move it. Then he moved to the other wardrobe, which moved easily.

"Huh. No one nails furniture to a wall for no reason." I opened the fastened wardrobe. Nothing but fliers about 'Beware the Butcher' from a Violet Giordano pooled in the bottom…

…ah, wait. Beneath the fliers was an amulet, oddly dark and oddly cold. I pocketed it without calling attention to it. It immediately felt as though I carried a dead thing and I wondered what it was for. I probably wouldn't like the answer to that wondering, but I did want to know.

Ralof reached past me and knocked on the back of the wardrobe. The sound that returned was hollow.

"Only reason someone nails something to a wall is if they don't want it moved," he declared. "Your fingers are smaller than mine. Have a look round the edges, here." As a woodworker, he would know.

I felt around the edges of the wardrobe's back panel and found several grooves, which I slid my fingers into and pushed against. The door swung open revealing a room carefully hidden from view.

I nearly vomited on the spot. I certainly tensed as the reek of blood mingled with decay and what might have been embalming fluids hit me like a charging mammoth. My throat locked up and my guts churned, eyes stinging at the odor and head growing light from it. How could anyone work in a stench like this, necromancer or not?!

"Divines above," Ralof gagged, stepping back, causing his arm so he could hide his nose in the crook of it.

I had to quell both my nausea and the revolt of my sense of smell before I could look around at the room.

The room was covered in blood; obviously this was where those girls had actually been killed. Body parts in various states of preservation and decay mingled with bottles—empty and full—of mead, and several oranges lay discarded and seemed to have been there for some time. Upon an altar lay a kind of corpse, only it wasn't a corpse, really. Just a patchwork of body parts sewn together.

The hand that did the sewing was fine, stitches fairly small and regular, made using delicate, strong silk. I frowned at the stitches, then walked over to one of the rotting oranges, picking it up delicately. Several gashes in the peel had been sewn up with different threads.

"I've seen this before. Imperial Legion uses fruits with leathery peels to train their non-mage healers. See these different threads? He was testing to see what worked best—or was least unsightly," I added, picking up another orange which had the orange color rubbed off leaving the white pith, contained several pale colors of silk thread sealing its gashes.

"This is…" Ralof, still pale, regarded the body with a kind of sympathetic horror.

However much care the Butcher had taken with his victims and assembling this… grotesque thing… the fact remained that the woman the corpse was supposed to be was hideous. That she was missing her head and hands did not reduce the hideousness, but seemed to draw attention to it.

I sniffed approval of the Bucher's intelligence and immediately regretted it. The reek back here was so strong it was practically a _flavor_ and would undoubtedly insinuate itself into Ralof's and my clothing. And hair. "In the first victim's house. The one place no one would think to look. The one place the family wouldn't want to go." Now, how he'd gotten in here to work with the second girl I don't know.

"What was he trying to do? Looks like he's almost finished."

I glanced at Ralof, deciding the question was largely rhetorical, since I know beans about necromancy and most magic. "I don't know that what he's doing can be finished—it looks like he's trying to breathe life back into a corpse."

I turned to the wall facing the corpse and found a desk piled with documents, scrolls, and several leather-bound volumes.

"As if Windhelm needed a necromancer on top of everything else," Ralof grunted. "Please tell me you've got some ideas about this sick freak."

"I'd gotten about as far as sick freak. I'll buy us both a drink at Candlehearth for having to endure this. Ugh… or several." As I moved to the desk, my eyes began to sting. A large bucket contained hanks of blonde hair—obviously taken from several donors. Several large jars contained a liquid marked _preservation_. I picked up the last one and let out a strangled scream and dropped it.

Eyes, glassy and greying, looked back at me.

The jar hit the ground hard but, to my relief, did not break. That suggested it had been bespelled for durability.

I backed into Ralof who wrapped an arm around me.

"It's best not to look," he noted softly in my ear. "Talos knows I'm trying not to."

"I think you're right." Apparently I'm not as proof against the gruesome as I thought. I slipped free of his arm and returned to the table, putting the jar of eyes back and pulling the leather-bound book with its faded blue ribbon marker—which was not part of the book and which still held several fair hairs—off the worktable. "Let's step back after all… I feel sick."

"Took you long enough," Ralof chided as we moved back into the house proper. The air seemed thin with the lessening of the reek of blood and death.

"It's a journal," I announced, flipping through it. "It looks… like he's trying to bring back his lover. Lucilla. He's been harvesting women to reconstruct her." And it looks like he's nearly done. I shivered, wondering if he just needed a head or if he had a head somewhere and was holding off on attaching it until he had all the blonde hair he wanted.

Who can say with a loony like this?

"Looks to me like she'd be happier dead than walking around as _that_ ," Ralof noted, shaking his head as he glanced back at the workroom.

"I am in _complete_ agreement. There's no signature, of course… but he was trained in Winterhold at the College."

"…you know… " Ralof shifted uneasily.

"What?"

"…there is the court mage. 'The Unliving' they call him." He tried not to sound too nervous or superstitious, but it was only a partially successful attempt. Nords are uneasy around magic and Ralof is no different.

I know Wuunferth—that is to say, we've had some dealings. I've seen his handwriting and this isn't it. Also, he's completely in love with the College and, were it not for their restrictions of his field of study, would still be there today. "It's possible." Also, if _he_ wanted to bring someone back from the dead, he'd start with rabbits or something small to make sure he could do it and refine the techniques so the body didn't look like a patchwork quilt. He's detail-minded that way.

All this says, to me, desperation. Strong-arming… even if the fellow is trying to be careful. Witness the careful stitching and practice with it.

Although how this fellow will be able to touch the woman once he has her back is beyond me. I'm with Ralof. Being a woman myself, I can say it would be better to stay dead than to be _that_ … and if this woman really is so sweet and so perfect she'll be horrified at what she is and what he's done to get her back so he hasn't really succeeded in anything.

I imagine that, unless she has a way to bind her from doing so, she'll run through the town and if the city watch doesn't kill her she'll throw herself into the icy river and drown or freeze to death.

"Long way to go for someone you love," Ralof noted, almost sadly, as he flipped through the journal. After a very awkward silence. "Lucinda and Lucilla sound a lot alike."

"Are you suspecting _me_ , Ralof? Hm… maybe I do seem the type," I teased.

"No," he answered, too preoccupied to be teased. I'd half expected him to make a too-loud vociferation about how I couldn't possibly be a killer-type. In fact… it was reassuring, in a way, that he didn't; it shows he knows I _could_ be capable of being a killer-type, just not one like this. Clearly he's less naïve than I thought he was. "I'm just wondering… " He looked as though he wished he hadn't said anything… but I suppose it was a topic that had to get out.

"You wonder how far I'd go to avenge her?" I finished bluntly.

"Maybe not for the reasons you think," he added hastily, more to ensure we were on the same page than to soften what he'd just said.

I sighed. "I'm not out to kill Thalmor or support a cause that will let me do it _for her sake_. She'd be appalled that I resorted to bloodshed and would thoroughly disapprove of me killing Endarie. She'd reject the idea that joining the Stormcloaks was 'the only way' I could see. In fact, she'd probably disown me by this point. I'm not out to avenge her. I'm out to make _them_ pay for _my_ suffering. I can't do that if I'm dead. Besides…" I added in a softer tone, "I wouldn't want her name blood spattered. I love her too much to make her my excuse. Now that you know… what reason I may not be thinking?"

Ralof hesitated, then jumped right in. "I care what happens to you, even if you don't seem to. So do the others."

"I can't do much if I'm dead," I offered reassuringly, putting a hand on his arm to emphasize my point.

He covered it with his, as though unsure if I would let him do it. "I care, Leandra. I don't want to watch you burn."

I would have told him 'then don't look,' but there was something in his tone and expression that killed the words. There was something in the way his hand closed over and wrapped around mine that made me throat go tight. It was evidence of something I'd become passively aware of… and had hoped to stay only passively aware of.

Instead, I hiked a less grim expression onto my face. "Thank you." Then, somewhat to my own surprise, I rose onto tiptoe and placed a kiss on his cheek. Part of me, a small part that cared less for others than myself, wished I'd kissed him properly. Except for being a Stormcloak, he's the type of person my mother would have wanted for me. He's very… sweet… and instead of finding it annoying or some kind of detraction, I found it rather appealing. Maybe I'm simply so warped by this point that sweetness is far more attractive than it would otherwise be.

I did what I do best: I stayed practical. "Let's go. This place bothers me."

" _Bothers_ you?" he repeated, not looking hurt (though a little surprised by my momentary show of affection) and arching his eyebrows. It was an understatement, after all.

" _Very_ seriously bother me," I amended.

"Good sign."

Thus reassured, I made sure to replace things as well as I could. What I didn't tell Ralof was that I expected this necromancer to work at finding whoever had been rifling his things—especially with his journal missing. He'll be more dangerous if provoked, but putting him on the defensive gives me an advantage.

-L-

The morning after the gruesome discovery in Hjerim found me tired and unsettled. I hadn't slept well and attributed part of it to the amulet in my ditty bag. I hadn't let it get too far away from me lest I lose it and never find it again. I wasn't sure I wanted to show it to Wuunferth just yet, but I was sure I wanted it on hand.

I honestly didn't think that Wuunferth had anything to do with this mess, and I'm usually a good judge of character, even if Ralof maintained that the man had fingers in this mess one way or another.

"Well, I see you're back," Wuunferth said, looking up from the big book he hunched over.

"Yes." I dropped into the chair opposite him.

"I suppose you've come for a game?" he nodded at the chessboard.

"Of a sort. Did you know most people think you're a necromancer?"

Wuunferth snorted, grimacing at the ignorant masses as I knew he would. "Necromancer, indeed! I'm a mage in good standing with the College! Besides, necromancy's been banned for, let me see now… hundreds of years. What idiocy."

I'm not sure I believe him about not dabbling, but I do believe he's not crazy. "Then I think someone's having a go at framing you," I answered, not entirely truthfully. "You know of the Butcher?"

"A little more than I'd prefer and a lot less than I'd like," Wuunferth shook his head. "I don't think it's random and I don't think it's 'just for practice' either."

From my ditty bag I produced the Butcher's journal and set it on the table. "You'd be right." I took a piece of paper and scribbled on it, then held it up. Perhaps it was overly-prudent, but servants have long ears and gossip.

 _Hjerim—secret passage behind wardrobe. Altar and remains._

Wuunferth arched his eyebrows, taking the journal.

I scribbled on the page again. _What is this?_ I handed him the amulet.

His eyes grew very wide, more surprise than shock. Hurriedly, he waved me to put it down on the table, which I did.

After a disdainful but cautious glance at the amulet, he took the paper and scribbled: _The Necromancer's Amulet. Powerful. Evil. Someone went through trouble and great expense to obtain one._

I nodded at this, mouthing 'thank you.'

He folded the paper, nodding. "I hope you'll join me for an evening game. It does get so quiet."

I smiled at this as I got to my feet. "I'll think about it. Good day."

"Yes, yes, off with you, now," Wuunfeth said, tucking both the paper and the journal into his robes.


	17. Chapter 17

Thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

"Why?" I demanded of Geirlund as we walked—well, as he half-dragged—me enthusiastically through the street.

"Because it's _open_ ," Geirlund answered. "Calixto's is rarely open and you've not seen it."

"Nor do I wish to! I'm not one for museums," I protested feebly. I still wasn't sleeping well, and was trying to figure up the best way to either flush the Butcher from his lair (setting Hjerim on fire was on my list of nascent plans) or finding a way to confront him in it (which was unwise—cornered people are dangerous, just as cornered animals are).

Geirlund chuckled at this.

I do like him, but sometimes… and I had it from Avulstein that he's been to this foolish museum about a dozen times. He just doesn't like going alone, and the others are well able to avoid his invitations to go have a look. Another look.

The bell rang as Geirlund and I entered. I wanted to continue my investigation, but without hearing what Wuunferth had to say about the grisly altar I was unsure where to look next. I knew he was going to look, and I know he'll do something about it. The questions become have I been too discreet to attract the Butcher's notice and how often does the Butcher check on his project?

"Visitors? Ah, it's you again," Calixto (I assumed) got to his feet. A haggard man, he had the look of someone old before his time. Except for the dark circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot, he was fairly unremarkable. "And who is this?" he indicated me politely.

"One of my comrades," Geirlund answered proudly. "She's never seen the place. I thought it might amuse her."

"Hello," I inclined my head.

"Well, I daresay _you_ don't need the tour anymore," Calixto declared to Geirlund. "But perhaps your friend might. Or you could give it yourself, I suppose. In fact…"

I glanced at the table beside which Calixto sat when we came in and saw a small sign—

I wanted to gasp, but stifled the impulse. The handwriting was similar to that of the Butcher's journal, only more refined, less shaky, less… desperate. It could be a coincidence, I suppose, or a result of bad dreams last night. "I'd like the tour," I said, fishing out the requisite coins. "No offense, Geirlund."

"None taken," he shrugged, contented by my sudden interest.

Calixto hoisted on a smile as he pocketed the money. "Splendid. If you'll just follow me, I'll tell you such tales and show you such wonders as you've never seen!"

Most of the curiosities I found to be questionable at best—Book of Fate (predictably blank), Ysgramor's Soup Spoon (obviously a fork and I don't believe for an instant the man was so stupid as to confuse the two), and the Dancer's Pipe being the most obviously fake. However, it was as we came to one of the last displays that I nearly recoiled.

"—tools were found in a crypt outside Windhelm."

A curved-blade embalming tool lay among several others. It was the same tool, more or less, shown to me by the Priestess of Arkay, though it was quite clean; I couldn't see any traces of blood on it.

"They belonged to the Ancient Nords who dwelt in Skyrim before the days of the First Emperor. Most scholars believe that the Nords of old used these implements to prepare their dead for burial. It makes you wonder what these tools would reveal if they could but speak." Calixto patted the shelf, fondly.

They might well accuse him of multiple murders, for one, so I wouldn't look so smugly amused if I were him.

More than that, they could reveal quite a bit _without_ speaking. The curved implement was shinier than the rest—but only a little—particularly around the grip and the blade. It had been cleaned recently and repeatedly but not scrubbed within an inch of its life. Anyone not looking for something like this in the hands of a private collector might well have assumed he kept it clean for the sake of display.

"This is a marvelous collection," I declared, trying to sound more enthused than I actually was. "However did you assemble it?"

Calixto looked caught between smiling, frowning, and scowling. "My sister and I inherited a modest sum of money. We journeyed across Tamriel, encountering tales of exotic and wondrous artifacts."

Surprising there's nothing Daedric here, then. I hear the Daedra aren't particular about who finds their trappings.

"We decided to collect as many as we could. Those were the days. My sister Lucilla… passed away… some years ago."

…oh. Sister, not lover, then. That's… creepy. I was glad long sleeves disguised the gooseflesh that rose up on my arms at his admission.

 _Sister_?

…that's just disgusting.

"I couldn't bear traveling without her so I settled here and opened the House of Curiosities," Calixto sighed.

"I had a sister taken from me, too," I offered. "Lucinda. This sounds like a wonderful way to keep her memory fresh. I wish I could do half so well for mine as you have for yours."

Fresh, indeed. Except where it's rotting or reeks of preservatives.

Calixto nodded. "I think she would be happy to know that our collection has brought smiles to faces both young and old."

"It's certainly been illuminating for me. Thank you." I turned my back on the embalming tools and went back over to the Book of Fate as if I found it far more interesting than the mundane tools of embalmers.

-L-

Wuunferth did not begin our conversation right away. He warded the room for several minutes—which made me nervous. "Now we can talk without being overheard. Not that I think the Butcher is in the palace but you can never be too careful and I detest the passing of notes."

"Agreed. You first."

"Found you a picture of the Necromancer's Amulet," he said, handing me a book that looked as though he hadn't used it in about a hundred years or so. "I went to Hjerim and found the altar, too. Don't worry, I fired the place and did it discreetly. Whoever it is will have to start all over again, but won't know that until he pays a visit. And if you have reason to think he might believe you're involved… well, I wouldn't go wandering around by yourself if I were you—keep one of those burly lads of yours around just in case. Unless you entertain suspicions of _me_ ," he smirked at me, knowing full well I didn't, "in which case I'm afraid you would be in a bit of a bad position."

"Most serial killers probably wouldn't let the potential target know, first," I noted dryly as he poured wine for us both. "And you're too clever to take a risk like that for the sake of pride."

Wuunferth preened a little at the double pleasantry, then laughed when I made a show of letting him drink first. "You're not most people and people who panic or have the rug pulled out from under them do stupid, easy-to-see things. Don't worry; if he kills you, I'll finish the work of running him down. Here's a question: how come you didn't think it was me?"

"I know your handwriting, Wuunferth, remember? Also, you're not stupid enough to collect your own 'beware' posters—you're far too discreet and careful. If you were desperate, it would make you more careful, not less. This is someone's hotheaded action, not coldblooded action as suits the both of us," I answered, sipping the wine with a smile. It was one of the bottles I'd imported for him—not one of the ruinously expensive ones, but it had an elegant flavor one just doesn't get in Skyrim.

Wuunferth chuckled at this. "Too true. That out of the way, your turn."

"Among other things, I found Lucilla."

"Oh?" Wuunferth blinked. "In what _state_ did you find her? I thought she was the corpse—or supposed to be."

"Not literally. Lucilla is the name of Calixto Corrium's deceased sister. He mentioned her while I was taking the tour of his little museum. That slip means he either knows I know or he doesn't realize Hjerim's been investigated."

"Place is full of rubbish," Wuunferth declared, echoing my own sentiments. "The House of Curiosities, I mean. Ysgramor's soup spoon indeed—any sensible man would have swapped that fork for a real spoon or just drunk straight from the bowl."

I quite agreed.

"More interestingly, I found ancient Nord embalming tools, such as the Priestess of Arkay suggested were used to harvest the victims. They're fairly clean, but I'll admit if I wasn't looking for them I wouldn't have noticed. You did the poor woman a favor by torching her 'new body.' I don't know any woman who would want to live like that," I said softly.

"So the lady in the journal is his _sister_ and not his lover? Hm." Wuunferth took it more stoically than I did. Then again… 'The Unliving.' "Necromantic rituals often require an element of time. Given what we now know, I can try to predict when the next death is coming. There's a problem with the pattern, though, which has made it difficult to—"

"Take out Nilsine Shatter-Shield and there won't be. The Priestess said she was someone else's work. A clever murder and completely separate from the Butcher's work," I supplied.

"Really? Hm. That was clever. Why chase two killers when you only need one to hang?" Wuunferth shook his head, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"I'm going to keep an eye on Calixto. If you find out anything, write it down and ask a soldier named Ralof to bring it to me. He's trustworthy and no one will be surprised to see him delivering a paper to me. If not him, Geirlund. We're all in the same unit."

Wuunferth suddenly grew very serious indeed, poking the book on the table with an admonitory finger. "Be careful, girl. I've spent all afternoon looking at the work of a madman. Don't underestimate him or play clever games," Wuunferth cautioned. "If you'll take my advice, pack up those burly lads of yours, sneak in, and pummel this fellow into jelly. If he dies before he can stand before justice so much the better."

I put on my most charming tone and expression. "Why Wuunferth, either you're growing fond of me or you're about out of that… special order."

"Hmph. Think whatever you like about the former—but I wouldn't say 'no' to some more of the latter," he declared, flopping down in his chair and crossing his arms. "I mean it. You don't play around with the crazies… and you have very lovely hands, which I notice the corpse was missing."

"I'll bear it in mind. Now, if you'll let me out?"

-L-

"Septim for a beggar?" the woman I'd paid earlier in my investigation wheedled at me, her eyes darting about in a 'come here' fashion.

"Of course. It's such a wretched day," I answered, producing a coin, which she palmed.

"You said to tell you if I see something strange," she said in a hurried undertone, "saw a fella last night following a girl. Couldn't say for sure, but looked like the fella as killed the last one."

"Which girl?" I asked softly.

"Altmer woman, long blonde hair. Works at the stables. Been to sleep in those stables, once or twice. That's how I know," the woman answered.

Blonde hair in a container. That makes sense. Maybe planning to use her head? Or just keep the hair safe until it's time to use it? Or is it bait? Does he know Hjerim's been cleansed and he has to start over? Does he knows he's being investigated?

I palmed her four more coins for the tip that led to Hjerim and which narrowed my manhunt to human men. "Ears open. If I bag my man on your information, there's more."

She thanked me loudly for my charity as I walked away.

Moments later, Ralof appeared. "Weirdest thing," he said, handing over a piece of paper.

It contained one line in Wuunferth's hand: _dark of the moon._

I clenched my fist around the paper that's the day after tomorrow. "I need to speak with the rest of the unit," I said darkly, aware that my knuckles were blanching and that I really ought to loosen my grip on the paper.

"Leandra?" Ralof asked, frowning.

"It's about _him_ ," I answered in an undertone. I took a steadying breath. "I was planning to pay my respects to Lucinda today. The Halls of the Dead will be as good a place as any to meet up… assuming you're willing to help."

Ralof glared at me.

"I had to ask," I said soothingly.

His expression still said that in a situation like this I could have saved my breath and simply relied on him.

-L-

In each Hall of the Dead there's a place near the shrine of Arkay intended for those who wish to pay respects but whose loved ones are not interred in that particular hall—sometimes because the devotee is away from home, sometimes because there's no body to be buried anywhere.

While in Windhelm, I usually paid my respects to her twice a week… or tried to. Today, though, I felt utterly distracted as I pretended the flowers were Lucinda's favorites rather than the sprig of snowberries which is traditional in Windhelm for a loved one whose innocent blood was spilt.

I became aware, by degrees, that I was no longer alone, despite the fact that the others weren't due to meet me here for another quarter of an hour. However, the fact that he—I felt sure it was Ralof, who seemed to take the approach that if I knew who the Butcher was then the Butcher knew who I was—remained silent and unobtrusive indicated he was simply being cautious and did not intend to disrupt my devotions.

"You're early," I noted without looking away from the shrine.

"I've got a bad feeling," Ralof answered simply, moving to stand at my shoulder. He gently placed a sprig of snowberries in the alcove, bowing his head and steepling his fingers for a moment as was proper when paying respects.

"Thank you," I declared, watching the light play on the waxy skins of the berries. "For remembering her."

"I was glad to do it."

And, according to the letter that mentioned it, hope he wasn't paying respects to me as well.

"You asked me what her favorite flowers were. She liked sweet peas. They don't grow in Skyrim, but she thought they were pretty—like flower-ladies wearing pretty bonnets." Mentioning them decided me that, if I ever had means and opportunity, I would find a way to grow them even in this most inhospitable of provinces.

"And yours?"

I had to think about it. "Lavender, particularly since it has practical applications as well." It took me a moment to decide if I wanted to ask him about his. "What about you, as we're on the topic?"

"You'll laugh," he answered.

"Then I respect your silence." I turned my attention back to the shrine. My resentment towards the Divines for letting this happen had cooled in the past months, leaving me feeling fairly apathetic rather than hurt, angry, and betrayed. Bad things do happen to good people… it's just harder to accept when you're the one they happen to, or when they happen to people you love.

I wasn't ready to hear words of comfort from any of the clerical orders, but I'd accepted that the blame lay with mortal agents. Thus, a mortal agent would be required to handle the matter.

Although I do wish the Divines were as hands-on as the Daedra tend to be.

"Lilies," Ralof answered simply. "There was a hidden corner in Riverwood where these crimson lilies would grow." Then, as if unsure he wanted to remember it himself, let alone share it, "It was our secret, Hadvar and me. Not that he cared so very much. Hn… nor did I, as I think about it."

"There's joy to be had in having and sharing a secret. I had formed the impression you used to be friends."

"Best friends."

"One of the hidden costs of war where brother fights brother," I nodded. "It would be one thing if they could hate each other; anger can be dealt with. But adding pain and regret to anger, and it turns it into something truly hideous."

"How do you manage?"

"By not fighting my sister," I answered with less cynicism than one might expect.

"Your family is in Solitude, though."

I turned to study his expression, wondering what he was getting at exactly. "You think I wouldn't join the storming of Solitude?" It took effort to make it sound like confusion rather than accusation.

It was Ralof's turn to study in silence. "No… I can see that you would."

"There's nothing for me in Solitude. I'm at peace with this. Besides," I didn't think I could handle much more of the grim tone the conversation had assumed, "I have you and the others. That's something. It's enough."

"Good to know."

The conversation, thankfully, was broken up by the arrival of Geirlund and Avulstein, followed a few minutes later by Vidrald, then Thorold.

I regarded the five men, chewing the inside of my lip. "I need your help," I began uncertainly.

Avulstein crossed his arms over his chest. "Does this have to do with our being pulled out of the field?" his question was not accusatory, more as though he thought he knew the answer.

"Yes. I was tasked, during our furlough, to find and if possible detain the Butcher." I hadn't mentioned any of this to anyone but Ralof since a troupe of people is harder to overlook than two.

Silence.

"…I believe I've found him and I believe I know when his next kill will occur."

More silence, which began to make me uncomfortable.

"We're going to lose you, aren't we?" Avulstein asked when I said nothing more. "This isn't something you just undertook on your own."

"Jarl Ulfric did give me this task, yes," I answered, succeeding in not sounding as uneasy as I felt. "I wasn't sure how to broach the matter."

Ralof's words shocked me. "Pay out."

I watched, feeling a little dumbfounded as Avulstein and Vidrald both handed over a few coins to Ralof and Geirlund.

Ralof caught my look and immediately looked guilty. "I'll have you know, the bet was made back when we took that Imperial camp. It was obvious you had bigger plans."

I thought I'd been discrete in that respect. Glancing to Avulstein, I found resignation but neither surprise nor condemnation.

"Mother would be glad to have you off the frontline," was all he said.

It was Geirlund's pat on the shoulder that told me things were alright, that the surprise that the time of parting had come into view just needed some time to wear off. Or maybe the acceptance was that Ulfric had reached out to me, rather than my going to him. None of them would go against anything Ulfric wanted. They're too good of soldiers for that.

"So. The Butcher," Vidrald prompted.

I glanced earnestly at Geirlund. "…you're not going to like this. I have reason to believe the Butcher is Calixto Corrium."

Geirlund's jaw dropped. "What? Why?"

"Why do I think so or why would he be the Butcher?" I asked.

"Both," Thorold said, looking perturbed, but not nearly so much so as Geirlund did.

I explained the findings in brief, neat little points of information.

"You're sure it's not Wuunferth?" Ralof asked dubiously, Avulstein and Thorold both nodding.

"I know Wuunferth. His approaches to problems don't match what I've seen of the Butcher. And having seen Calixto's and Wuunferth's handwriting, I know which one most resembles the Butcher's," I answered. "I'm certain the Butcher is Calixto. The only question is whether or not he can be brought to stand before the Jarl."

From the dubious looks, those who felt he ought to stand before justice were a minority. I would prefer he did for form's sake—the result is a foregone conclusion—but I'd be happy to not waste anyone's time with Calixto and his madness.

"How do you want to handle this?" Avulstein asked in much the same tone he would have asked for input for a mission in the field.

"The next kill will happen on the dark of the moon. I believe I know who the target is—an Altmer woman who works at the stables. This is dangerous—"

Five snorts indicated my intention to say that they didn't have to involve themselves was unnecessary.

"Alright. This was what I had in mind—"


	18. Chapter 18

Thanks to 16DarkMidngiht80 for going over this!

-L-

The Butcher's next victim was the Altmer Arivanya. She was a pretty girl, and I could only suppose Calixto was after her hair or her hands—a human woman obviously couldn't have an elven face. Thorold and Avulstein were to shadow her home, one going halfway the other picking up and finishing. They weren't the sneakiest people in the world and I would rather not scare the poor girl senseless by having her stalked by a couple Nords in a non-Nord unfriendly city.

That Arivanya was an Altmer meant little to me, except to offer the reassurance that while I might have a serious case of hatred for the Thalmor I could still differentiate between them and individuals who happen to have golden skin and pointed ears.

The House of Curiosities was closed, as was usual, which meant planting Geirlund there to stall Calixto from heading out for the hunt was out—but that wasn't surprising. Geirlund, however, remained stationed near the House of Curiosities, hoping to see Calixto depart. I didn't have much hope that this surveillance would help, but it couldn't hurt.

Vidrald was waiting outside Hjerim. If Calixto thought to flee there once he was put to flight he would find more than he expected in the tiny chamber where his sister's new corpse once reposed. They were to hold him there because, obviously, it was better to have a person to present to Ulfric. A corpse would work too, but 'one must stand before the Crown.'

The pattern I expected Calixto to follow—assuming he hadn't noticed me for one reason or another—was that he would attack Arivanya at night as she wandered home. She worked late at the stables and worked long hours, so she was usually quite tired—or so I'd observed. She'd be easy to sneak up on.

Nothing of note occurred during the day—not even a sense of being watched or followed.

As night fell, I began the process of working my way to my nighttime post, where Ralof was already waiting.

The Aretino residence—now empty, the family being dead or displaced—commanded a good view not only of the main square, but also of one of the thoroughfares into the shabbier side of the city. It was from here my own vigil would occur, as it gave me two advantages.

Firstly, I had the height to make optimal use of a ranged weapon such as I prefer. If I saw Calixto or anyone I didn't recognize shadowing Arivanya, I could take a shot either to kill or incapacitate—if Calixto, perhaps put to flight. It would be easier and in many ways safer to simply corner him at Hjerim.

Secondly, it put me in a position where I was hard to get to, in case Calixto felt prudential. So much harder to sneak up on someone if they've got high ground. I'll admit, I didn't like the idea of waiting with my back exposed. Still, if I had to pick someone to watch it…

I shook myself, peering into the stillness of the square. Silda—the beggar who had provided such useful intelligence—stood at the big brazier before Candlehearth, warming herself. Several other beggars whose names I didn't know stood with her, and seemed to be holding some kind of conclave.

Again, I found myself remembering the Grey Fox's well of information. It's something I need to think about, and something that would need to be enacted within more cities than just Windhelm. Still, setting something like that up would require time and resources—and local contacts for each city. The idea of being able to manage something like that made my skin tingle pleasantly.

What can I say? I like a challenge.

I stayed watching at the window looking over the square, peering through the crack between the frame and the glass. Silda and her fellows had moved on, and the hour had grown late.

Rolff had staggered out of Candlehearth, making an unholy racket as he did so. What I want to know is why Galmar doesn't tug on his brother's leash. I mean, isn't it embarrassing for an honor-oriented Nord who is housecarl to the Jarl to have a brother known for being the town drunk?

And a noisy, unwashed one I might add.

Snow began to fall. The chill seeping through the window would have been unpleasant if not for my tunic of resist frost.

A figure came out of a side street, moving to warm its hands at the giant brazier outside Candlehearth.

I found myself smiling, but it was a humorless thing. Calixto (and I felt confident that it was him) had been able to sneak up on his victims because he didn't appear like himself: he was dressed in rags, shivering and chill, an object of sympathy. It was something for me to remember.

Calixto was there for about an hour, the snow growing deeper and bringing on real discomfort and shivers. I had to give the man credit for his dedication. I had the impression he could wait forever if he had to, for a string of nights—and who would question one more beggar on the streets? It was the perfect disguise in some ways.

Arivanya appeared, her steps light and furtive. Maybe she'd realized she was being followed, maybe she was just nervous about being out so late and alone. I picked up my bow and pushed the window open slowly and silently, then fitted an arrow to the string, pulling it back to my ear, sighting in on the ragged figure who called out to Arivanya before hurrying over to her.

"Wait for it," I breathed, even though no one could hear me.

Arivanya's posture took on tones of sympathy and she dug for then handed over a coin. Calixto thanked her profusely, turning away as if to hurry to Candlehearth to use her largesse to buy a hot meal or drink.

She turned away to continue, and Calixto turned back to face her, his hands disappearing under his rags.

Arivanya's scream was stifle das the cord went about her neck, popped neatly over her head with an ease that made me think he'd practiced this time after time—and I had to wonder if there were more women dead at his hands than we knew about.

The arrow jumped from the string, taking Calixto in the shoulder. Blood immediately began gushing from the wound, drenching his back. Even if he gets away, unless he can stop the bleeding he's a dead man. And he'll leave a pretty trail to follow, so 'getting away' isn't really an option.

He screamed and Arivanya did the same, pushing away from him and staggering back.

The door downstairs banged open and a moment later Ralof appeared, sword drawn to pull Arivanya away from Calixto.

I planted another arrow just shy of Calixto's foot—a warning, not because I missed—before turning and hurrying out of the house.

Calixto was gone by the time I got there, but his tracks were in the snow. "Keep her safe!" I barked to Ralof before stringing another arrow to the bow and following the tracks.

I was within sight of Hjerim when a high-pitched howl emitted from it. The sound was jerky and followed by another.

Vidrald had already reached the door. I nodded to him, and he kicked the door in. It banged open, disgorging us as Calixto came bounding out of the gruesome room Wuunferth said he'd fired and cleansed.

We both had to jump smartly to the side as Calixto, with another maddened shriek, threw a blast of fire at us.

"Stay back!" I cried, not wanting Vidrald to get close to him. You never know with mages and it's best to fight range with range. I don't know if the warning was really necessary—mage versus archer is a good matchup and my lads aren't stupid—but I felt better for having said it.

And for future reference, that's the thing about coming in through a door: it's easy to kill someone that way, since there's only so much space they can use to enter. "You!" he screamed, eyes wide with madness. Sweat stood out on his blanched face. "You've ruined everything!" He trembled as he pointed at me, but I think he'd done something so he didn't feel the pain of the arrow still sticking out of his shoulder. That was unfortunate for him: if he'd felt it, he would have known there was more to the arrow than just an arrow. A mage might be able to stop the bleeding.

"Get down on the floor. I won't say it twice," I declared, pulling the arrow back and visualizing it where I wanted it. I wasn't going to play games.

Calixto took a step back, his posture hunching like that of a cornered animal. Slowly, he began to shake his head.

The arrow leapt from the string and sunk into his chest. Calixto jerked back with the force of the impact, crumpling to the ground. The arrow went clean through, and blood immediately began to blossom in an unnatural profusion beneath him. He switched and shuddered for a few moments, then went still.

"I've never seen someone bleed that much," Avulstein, who had just arrived, marveled.

I walked over to the corpse cautiously. "There's poison on the arrowheads," I answered, planting a foot on Calixto's chest and turning the arrow smartly before pulling it out. "It makes the blood flow uninhibited." An 'anticoagulant' I believe Nurelion called it. It doesn't matter: it worked beautifully. "Even if he got away, he wouldn't survive unless he could stop it."

"That's… unsetting," Thorald puffed.

"It works." And I'll have to become proficient with it, since it works so well. Nurelion is a worthy man, even if he chases myths; he puts Arcadia to shame… though being a Mer I suppose he's had more time to refine his craft.

-L-

"I'm impressed," Ulfric announced, looking from Wuunferth, the Priestess of Arkay, and me, then to my unit arrayed along the back wall of his strategy room. "And his last victim?"

"She's fine. An Altmer, Arivanya," I answered.

Of all of us, Geirlund had been the most shocked—after all, he'd been a fan of the House of Curiosities.

Of all of us, Ralof had been the most disgusted to learn that the assumed lover was actually a sister. That there was something unhealthy there was a shared sentiment and it was deemed best by all that the inner chamber had been fired and the body destroyed before the poor girl's spirit not only had to occupy it, but also had to deal with a creepy brother.

Ulfric eyed me speculatively. "When you do a thing you do it well, don't you?" I felt certain he was glad I'd spared him the necessity of dealing with such a criminal. It probably didn't hurt the impression that I was smart about when to drag someone to him and when to take care of it myself.

"I have that honor, my lord. But it would not have happened without the rest of my unit—their support in destroying this criminal was invaluable."

"I see it must have been." Ulfric promptly went through the proper forms of praise, thanks, and the expectation of further meritorious service before dismissing us—though he detained Wuunferth without explanation. That was, of course, his prerogative.

-L-

I was summoned away from my unit several days after having solved the Butcher murders. We, my unit and I, were packing up to return to the field. There were rumors of an Imperial encampment in the Pale and I needed to put in an in-person appearance in Whiterun.

The lads had proved less than refractory at the idea of my making contacts and keeping up the ones I had while we moved from place to place. So much so that I found myself willing to be a little more ambitious in our work. We'd certainly been noticed for their merit as fighters,

"There you are," Ulfric declared when I entered the strategy room. Unusually, Jorleif did not escort and announce me, he simply waved me in as if I were a habitual frequenter of the house. I took it as a good sign. "I'm pulling you out of the field, as such."

Rather than ask questions, and taking note of Galmar's sour look, I waited for him to elaborate.

"I'm making you Thane of Windhelm so you have clout in this city," Ulfric continued, still studying his strategy map. "Also, so you have some weight in the rest of the sympathetic Holds when you leave Eastmarch."

Again, I remained quiet, drinking in the words and meanings. Hope and excitement began to swell in my chest and it took effort to keep them both off my face.

"The war is at a standstill. It doesn't matter who pushes, no one is giving ground," Ulfric began to elaborate. "I intend to use you to tip the scale. You've already shown me you can handle internal problems as well as external problems. And I'd like to think you've been thinking about both since you decided the war wasn't moving fast enough for your tastes."

"I would never have said it like that, my lord, but I have given some thought to securing your future success," I answered demurely.

"Let's talk about theory. _Then_ we'll talk about logistics if I find the advice worth taking," Ulfric announced, looking up from his map table, his amber eyes studying me shrewdly. He's no master of the subtle, but he's a skilled physiognomist, I think.

"Shall I begin with an internal matter or an external one?" I asked, joining the two men at the strategy table.

"If you need a prompt use this one: the Dark Elves are growing restless," Ulfric answered.

Ah, so he noticed that after all. I was, I'll admit, a bit surprised that this was where he wished to start… then decided I shouldn't be. I'd mentioned as much to him weeks earlier.

"Ensuring that Galmar's brother were to hold his tongue and stay away from places he has no business being would go a way to clearing that up," I answered dryly. "He certainly harasses anyone who isn't a Nord—"

"And why shouldn't he be proud of the fact?" Galmar demanded.

I gave him a pointed look. "Because he came very near to having my dagger in his guts the first day I was in Windhelm and if he ever gets in my face that way again I'll cut out his tongue. It would be out of respect to you Sir Galmar, you understand, that I don't kill him where he stands."

Ulfric's mouth thinned, more to keep a smile off it than to show disapproval. Clearly, he believed I would do it, just as I said I would… which would be funny, since I'm not a large woman and Rolff is a boulder of a man.

I'd find a way.

"A woman in my position could scarcely afford not to take the threats he spouted or the threats he implied seriously. It's been made clear—inadvertently I'm sure, and by no design of yours, my Jarl—that the struggle for Skyrim is a matter for the resident Nords. Thus, the Dunmer have gracefully stayed out of it. The Dunmer need a reason to join the cause. Right now, almost two hundred years later, despite being productive citizens of Windhold for generations, they are still treated like refugees. By some more than others." I cast Galmar a significant look, at which he grimaced.

Ulfric rolled his eyes a bit at this, as though he felt they were treated far better than _that._ However, I think he simply hasn't bestirred himself to take notice of the problem in the Grey Quarter—Snow Quarter, most accurately—because he never had reason. Now that he's having problems, he has a reason to notice… or, rather, divert his attention.

"Now, I understand you cannot simply and overnight change policy—policy which, I am certain, was never meant to cause such rifting of the citizens of Windhelm." That's the key for dealing with proud people—it's not _their_ mistake, it's a misunderstanding or a difference between the ideal and the _ipso facto_ applications. "And I understand that a Jarl cannot possibly change his policies or he comes under the accusation of pandering which makes him appear weak.

"There are several minor changes that can be made to show that, while still solid and immovable in your will and secure in your right to rule, you are open to change. And in this instance change must begin near the top that the masses may follow. It would be a slow process at best, but the good subtleties usually are. They already have a spokesman, they just need an ear to hear him and a mouth to bring news to you," I concluded.

Both men looked dubious. I had the strong impression that if the elves would throw into with the Stormcloak movement, Ulfric would shuffle their concerns higher on his list of priorities. The problem is, as I pointed out, they have no incentive to enlist with his cause because of the way they're treated. It's a ponderous cycle and it is going to have to be Ulfric who breaks it—easier to get one man to move than two or more.

"Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but the elves have more to gain from supporting the Empire than supporting you at the moment. We don't need this to be another Whiterun, where representatives of both factions live side by side, waiting for the other to mis-step. To fight the Legion effectively, you must be able to turn your back on your own Hold for a while."

"New topic," Ulfric commanded, but not as though dismissing the idea.

I bowed my head in assent, switching topics deftly. "Maven Black-Briar in Riften. She's a hard woman and horrific to work with. However, your great supporter in the Rift, Jarl Laila, is a weak fool with no more to her credit than ardent support of your movement—as long as it doesn't cost her anything," I answered with all the bluntness that I figured Ulfric would appreciate. "Everyone knows that Maven truly runs Riften and that she has the ties to take it formally if she really wanted to—and when I say 'ties' I mean the Thieves' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood."

"How do you know?" Galmar asked darkly.

"It's an open secret in Riften. I told you, she's a hard woman and she's ruthless when it comes to protecting what she has or expanding her influence. She sent her own son to prison for crossing her," I answered simply. "And if you've ever met the witch, you'd know the only reason she doesn't do her own dirty work is because she wants to remain perceived as respectable."

Ulfric actually looked impressed by this.

"Unfortunately, she's also a supporter of the Legion, with private connections in both the Imperial Province and in Skyrim."

"That could be a problem." But by now Ulfric expected me to have answers to a problem if I brought it up.

It was flattering to my ego, I'll admit. And in some ways Maven is easier to deal with than the problems in the Snow Quarter. "Hardly, my lord. It's her ruthlessness that aids us. She can be bought. She will go with whichever side affords her the most benefit. And I believe she can be swayed to our cause—or at least be persuaded not to sabotage it—given the right incentives. This is, of course, another plan requiring time."

"Most of them seem to be. This one seems… elaborate. What about my supporter already there? It wouldn't do to simply throw her out when she's been so staunch," Ulfric noted, one finger moving without his notice to rest on Riften, tapping the point on the map gently.

"Laila gives you lip service, my Jarl, not any true support. When this war is over—or as it progresses—Holds not loyal to you will fall. Move Laila Law-Bringer to a minor hold. Paint it as a vote of confidence—you may need to put in a personal appearance—that her personal touch as a woman titled _Law-Giver_ is needed for this problem spot. It will not be an easy sell, but it can be made. She's so used to not doing much that I think she will expect much the same elsewhere—which means she may need to change members of her household's power structure."

Meaning that if I have the agents, I could plant someone near her. Not as a threat, but to be the serpent hissing in her ear. It could come in handy. And if it doesn't, so much the better. Laila is a prime candidate for a 'puppet Jarl.'

"Then, when she is safely aside with no one wondering how such a loyal soul was removed from power, install Maven. She already runs the city. No one would question it. And Laila will have a Hold more in keeping with her capability. And the dressings of flattery will keep her pride from being wounded and keep her from questioning the real reason she was moved. She's friends with Maven and as long as her own position isn't damaged will be quite pleased for her."

I don't look forward to working with Maven, but I suppose I'll end up doing a great many things I'd rather not do.

"An interesting plan. What else?" Ulfric asked, sounding a bit less arch and looking at me as though he'd never really seen me before. Perhaps he simply hadn't appreciated what I was capable of. Perhaps he simply hadn't let himself hope too much. Like opening an oyster for the meat but finding a pearl as well. Not an excellent metaphor, but I would let it stand.

"Madanach in Cidhna Mine. Get him set loose. Markarth is having problems—the Dragonborn rampaged through there just after I left after assassinating Ondolemar—"

"And I'll have _no_ more unsanctioned assassinations, if you please," Ulfric declared mildly… but with a glare that said he meant it. Or, rather, I was to give him a little advance warning next time.

I bowed my head. "Forgive me for having overstepped myself, my lord. It won't happen again." I waited for Ulfric to signal me to continue. The silence dragged until he realized I was waiting on a cue, which he immediately gave. "Meanwhile, Madanach hates the Empire as much as he hates the Stormcloaks. Let him keep the soldiers in the Reach occupied until we are ready to take it. And then it only takes a bowshot to solve the problem he represents in a very permanent fashion."

"No one escapes Cidhna Mine," Galmar grunted.

"Strategically, it's better to bottle the enemy up at Markarth and let them sweat," Ulfric agreed.

"I would never contradict such military minds as yours, my lords," and I honestly meant it. "I do ask, however, to be allowed to point out a simple fact: Cidhna Mine is staffed and productive. One doesn't win a war without money. It will also give you a place to send those you deem 'dissidents' but whom you might not wish killed outright. That is the function it already serves so no one would question it. Although, I warn you to keep a good staff of guards to make sure the inmates don't plot anything nasty," I continued, absently picking up the little pin marking Markarth and twirling it between my fingers. "Silver and blood are all that have ever come out of Markarth. They take pride in the fact. Also, it deprives the Thalmor of their second major foothold, to which they have already moved a significant force following the burning of their Embassy. The tower in Solitude couldn't handle the number of them present." I stuck the pin back into place.

"And you know this…?" Ulfric prompted.

How is it these Stormcloaks wage war if basic intelligence is so surprising? Then again… if Galmar and Jorleif are Ulfric's only real advisors…

Never mind.

" _Solitude Courier_. I have all the weekly pamphlets from all the Holds that maintain them—that is to say Solitude, Markarth, Riften, and Whiterun—sent to people I know who forward them to me at the Nightgate Inn," I answered. "I dislike being a week or so behind the times, but information is information and one must do what she can. I wouldn't dream of telling you how best to wage a war, but I will tell you that Markarth would be easy to rally on the inside if it was done carefully and timed with equal care. The people are angry. They are inspired by the Dragonborn's antics even if their initial uprising was put down. She has that city wound so tightly… " I clenched a fist for emphasis. "The longer it percolates, the better for us. But the taking of Markarth will require much groundwork if you hope to avoid a siege, which is always a messy, drawn-out affair. And even if siege is the only option, a little groundwork might make a lengthy one unnecessary."

I was met with a 'finish the thought' sort of look from Ulfric and a frown from Galmar. I expect he prefers the direct—and bloody—approach. He's certainly advanced that view before.

"Getting Madanach out is dangerous, but not horrifically complicated. He only needs a way. Since he cannot walk out the front, we must contrive to create a back door." That means a brave soul to willingly go in and begin agitating. "Then a small team would need to block the tunnel or exit hole and a mage to put a decent illusion over it. This would leave a weakness the Legion would have difficulty finding. It isn't the best plan, at the moment, but consider future uses of such a back door: if, say, Markarth were assaulted and the Stormcloaks were to come out of Cidhna Mine instead of trying to get through those massive gates as a primary entry point… " I waved a hand. "The Forsworn want to fight. Give them Madanach and they'll have a direction. Take him away and they'll strike at whoever was deemed responsible."

"Like the Legion," Galmar grunted.

"Like the Legion, since they'd be convenient. Slowing travel—of men, materiel, intelligence—is one way of damaging a war effort. And, as I said, he can always be killed when he is no longer useful. Then the Stormcloaks have the honor of relieving the Reach from the pressures the Foresworn have placed upon them."

"Where do you get your information? Aside from the newsletters." Ulfric asked.

"Innkeepers. Tavern staff. Shopkeepers. People I've done business with. In short, people likely to hear gossip. Most of them correspond with me via my business partner in Whiterun and she forwards their letters to me. She isn't sympathetic to the cause and believes that I work in this Hold because I'm the only one of us capable and that business is booming." I smiled. I really do like Ysolda—she's a sweet girl

"And is it?" Ulfric asked blandly.

"I send enough gold back to her to maintain that illusion," I answered with a shrug. "It's difficult, but I manage." I rather enjoy the difficulty, but that's just the sort of woman I am.

Speaking of difficulty, however… "If I may, the business you seem willing to let me conduct sometimes gets… questionable. I am willing to report anything and everything but I most humbly suggest you allow me to stay vague. That way, if discovered, you can say you knew nothing about it and that I overstepped my mandate—whatever that actually is—since I've done it before. Witness Ondolemar."

"Reasonable, if unacceptable," Ulfric added in a tone that suggested clearly he would be satisfied with an arrangement like that as long as I didn't get caught and answered him if he questioned me. I imagine he'll want to overrule any project I have running if he decides it's not to his liking… but only if he has the presence of mind to demand an accounting.

"Forgive me, my lord, for overstepping my boundaries. Perhaps you would be willing to state, explicitly, what those are so that I may not do it again?"

Ulfric considered, then shook his head. "I'll write it down if I find time."

"Yes, my lord." That's a wise idea. One always makes a better representation of one's thoughts if they're written down.

"Now, let's discuss your position as Thane. I imagine you'll need somewhere other than the barracks to set up shop, shall we say."

I had to smirk at the joke. "That would be most beneficial."

"I have a housecarl in mi—" Ulfric began.

"Forgive me, my lord, for interrupting. I would prefer to select my own housecarl if one need be assigned. Due to the sensitive nature of my business, I would rather have someone I already have some dealings with and with whom I have some rapport."

This neither surprised nor offended him. In fact, I think he rather expected such forethought from me. "Do you have a name?"

"Yes. Her name is Mjoll the Lioness. Funnily enough, she lives in Riften. And would dearly like to see it… cleaned up, shall we say? A Jarl can't afford to be seen with dirty hands, which means Maven will put her underground if Mjoll manages to disturb anything."

"A woman you say can and will call the Dark Brotherhood, easy as breathing?" Galmar asked darkly. "Who's to say she won't do it against you? Or Ulfric, here?"

"You seem to be under the impression _I_ would be adverse to such a thing," I answered darkly, "if I couldn't do my own killing. Which I can. The Dark Brotherhood has tried, failed, and discarded contracts before—the Dragonborn, for one. They aren't the Dark Brotherhood of fifty years ago, unless I'm a horrific judge of a situation. They're just Maven's private hit squad. And, perhaps I shouldn't admit to it, but I intend to have my own group of fixers. Of course, murder is usually a last recourse. I prefer something a little more elegant."

Getting hooks into the Thieves' Guild is one of the better, more concrete benefits of courting Maven. They wouldn't be opposed to a little on-the-side work under Maven's nose or out of the corner of her eye since they are only _exclusively_ hers by default—but they'll act more freely if they don't think she'll draw them up short. They'd hesitate to cross her… but they _are_ a business and if she's playing both sides…

You'd have thought Galmar suspected Ulfric of giving credence to a madwoman, or a monster. Well, I suppose I am something of a monster.

"I could have done without knowing that," Ulfric declared.

"My apologies, my lord."

"And you'll need a steward." Which just went to show he was as deft at playing formalities as I was. Or was practicing doing it, since I suppose I make something of a dangerous asset for a variety of reasons.

"As far as a steward, the Lioness doesn't go anywhere without a fellow by name of Aerin. He worries about her most charmingly and they already… cohabitate. If she pledges her sword-arm, he'll follow her wherever she goes. You should know she's a crusader. If she sees a wrongdoing or an injustice she is likely to intervene."

A silence ensured during which Ulfric ran his fingers along the map, toying with the worn-soft edges.

"Which means you're going to spend a lot of time apologizing for her," Ulfric noted dryly.

I considered for a moment before answering. "To _you_ , my lord, for civil disruption. And I'm certain that, if it were to come to light that she was only acting as a good citizen would, or was defending the defenseless, you would not fail—in your capacity for fairness and even judgement—to pardon her excess of integrity."

A slap on the wrist and then let her go about her business.

Ulfric actually laughed at this. I certainly gave a thin smile. "You're possibly the oiliest speaker I've ever met."

"I shall take that as it was meant. Thank you, my lord."

"Is there anything particular you need that I should know about?"

"I should like to equip myself with a confidential valet or handmaiden. This would be, of course, my personal expense. I mention it because she might have need to contact you or Sir Galmar or other individuals in my place or on my behalf."

"Your maid is your prerogative," came the necessarily nonplussed answer. That was good, since she's my expense and my business.

"I would like to keep my unit as muscle in case I need it. Wuunferth has a marvelous way to train hawks to fly between specific people or destinations. I could ask him to spell such a bird for me as would find them should I have need. I know them and I trust them." And they trust me. That helps.

"Fair enough. They moped like children after returning from Northwatch Keep. One would think they'd lost their first puppy," Ulfric noted, as though suspecting I didn't know.

"That warms my cold and twisted little heart, my lord." I meant it, even if it came across as a joke. A woman can't afford to appear too fond of her unit or she's accused of mollycoddling and her ability to send them out into dangerous situations—perhaps to die—comes into question. "I should like to go to Riften as soon as possible and begin laying the groundwork for Maven—assuming, of course, that you do not object to the plan."

"How far does your reach extend currently?" Ulfric asked.

I looked at the map table. "I have contacts in all the major and minor holds—mostly through my mercantile business—and Marcus' before that. I know most of the innkeepers in the major settlements as well. One should always cultivate the innkeepers and tavern-owners. I'll expand through them, discreetly. Most people won't even know what they're doing."

"Plausible deniability," Ulfric clarified.

"The tool of the subtle and the wise, my lord."

-L-

13 Sun's Dawn

(Journal, Ulfric Stormcloak)

I finally did it, and brought that woman in as Thane. She rubs Galmar the wrong way and makes me a little uneasy, but her skills are undeniable. If the Thalmor deal in secrets and subtleties, then necessity demands I must meet them on that field somehow. I think she'll do. She certainly had no shortage of ideas, however nebulous and disconnected they are at present.

I intend to install her in Hjerim; it's close to the palace but private enough that she won't have half the palace staff looking over her shoulders—accidentally or otherwise. Galmar doesn't approve but in this instance I don't care. He's a worthy fellow and there's no better brother to stand by one, but his fight isn't like hers. I wouldn't say she could win this war, but she would go a long way in streamlining the process. She leaves for Riften in the morning under the belief that she can court—or begin to court—Maven Black-Briar away from the Empire.

I don't know the woman, but I know Imperial supporters. I'm not holding out much hope.

To be honest, I've thanked Talos several times since my last meeting with Leandra that she's not on the Empire's side. She's dangerous, and cold to a degree I've never seen before. And it doesn't affect her mental function or, I daresay, her judgment. At least I hope it doesn't.

We'll see; her plans are grandiose, but they take time in a way I'm not used to accommodating.


	19. Chapter 19

Thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

The importance of first impressions cannot be overstated.

The Ragged Flagon is 'home' to the sketchiest element in the Province. A motley collection of thieves, ruffians and miscreants, it's a place for business or for thrill-seekers.

Or, as in my case, observation and information-gathering. I had no ties with the Thieves' Guild or with the tavern they were said to frequent… yet. But if I was going to form ties, I wanted to have at least a first approximation of what and with whom I would be dealing with before I began making arrangements.

"Come _on_!" a laughing voice challenged. A moment later, two young women appeared, one of them with an expression as dark as her hair, the other quite the opposite, smiling excitedly and dragging her companion along by the arm. "It's gonna be _great_!"

" _Why_ am I doing this?" the brunette asked, trying half-heartedly to pull out of the little blonde's grip.

"Because it's gonna be great! Two girls on the road, seeing Skyrim! Together! I haven't seen _any_ of Skyrim except Riften!" The blonde's eyes, an odd shade of gold, glittered with whatever prospect lay within the confines of her fluffy-haired head.

The brunette sighed heavily.

"Later Vekel!" the blonde grinned, pausing to wave to the barman and forcing her companion to turn around or risk a twisted arm. Apparently the blonde had a grip like a limpet.

The bartender nodded and waved halfheartedly, as though he couldn't quite believe he was doing it.

"I get it," the girl laughed, letting go of her brunette companion in order to show empty hands to the rather impressive bouncer. "I can cause all the trouble I want once… I… cross… thispointhere! HAHAHAA! Trouble! Here _we_ come!" She clamped onto her friend's arm again and took off at as fast a shuffle as the brunette would tolerate. "Later, Dirge!"

The bouncer blinked. "Did anyone else just see that?" he asked, pointing in the direction the two women had gone.

"I heard why, I just don't get _how_ ," a grizzled Breton noted, looking shaken.

"Sapphire's going to kill her before they get halfway to wherever they're going," a Redguard announced. "Lemme have one, Vekel. I think I need it."

"Solitude," declared a Nord slipping out of the back of the tavern. "They're heading for Solitude."

"Your protégé is insane. You know that, right?" the Redguard asked politely.

"Perhaps." The redhead walked over to the bar, leaning on it, and dropped a few coins onto the surface.

"You're drinking and it's only midday. There's no 'perhaps' to it," the Redguard almost sneered… but there was a quirk to her mouth that took some of the sting out of the remark.

"Obviously insane works for her," the redheaded Nord answered, taking a deep drink from his mug.

"Sapphire's going to kill her. Or cut out her tongue so she can get a bit of peace and quiet," a new voice spoke up. This belonged to the woman whose hair was so blonde it looked white.

"Nah," the redhead shook his head. "Kitty-lass is going to be good for her, I think. Sapphire might growl but this trip will be good for them. Call it intuition."

"Ugh," the Redguard rolled her eyes. " _Male_ intuition?" The comment attracted several scowls as if to say that it wasn't only females who had good intuition. "I can't tell if that's a vote of confidence or wishful thinking."

"Why can't it be both?" the redhead asked under his breath, and I had the impression he had an eye on a picture bigger than the Redguard appreciated.

I could say this for them: for a pack of thieves they had a sense of humor.

-L-

"Wouldn't have figured _you_ for a Stormcloak sympathizer, despite how much business you used to do here," Maven Black-Briar noted dryly as we sat at her private table on the second story of the Bee and Barb.

"I'm really not," I answered, sipping my wine. "I prefer to think of it as the Thalmor being bad for business. I don't think you heard what happened to Lucinda?"

"I hadn't." Not that Maven would particularly care, nor would I expect her to. I'd be suspicious and nervous if she did.

"It's getting to be too common a thing. They pulled a similar stunt in Whiterun of all places."

Maven shrugged. "That's their prerogative, of course."

I had to smile: listen to her, so confident that she's untouchable. I used to be like that. "Some would say so. I say their business is religion and politics, not commerce."

"And are you truly so formidable that they should have known better than to cause you inconvenience?" Maven asked.

"Perhaps. But that's the thing—they wanted me. Not her. Quite a mistake to make, don't you think?"

"It's certainly a narrow shave for you. So, we've been through the how-do-you-do. Why don't you tell me what this is about?"

"I want to borrow the Thieves Guild."

"I beg your pardon?" Maven asked, arching her dark eyebrows.

"I want to borrow the Thieves' Guild from time to time," I repeated patiently. "Or, rather, contract them without interference from you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Even if I could arrange such a thing, I wouldn't do it."

Everyone has a price. For some it's coin. For others its safety for them and/or their family. And some people respond only to pain.

"I wouldn't expect something for nothing—not from the woman who has Riften by the balls."

Maven couldn't stop the smug look.

"I suppose you think the Empire will make you Jarl if they win?"

The tangent made her smile all the more smugly. " _When_ they win, dear girl. And I _am_ the obvious choice," she preened. Maven is a nasty piece of work, but she can be buttered. She might be unmoving when it comes to purchasing things from her… but this is different.

"They aren't the only ones who think so." She actually looked surprised by this. "But that's surely of no interest—I wouldn't expect something for nothing. I understand a woman by name of Mjoll is making life uncomfortable. I propose to get her out of your hair. Permanently and in a way that doesn't implicate you in any wrongdoing."

Maven pondered this, her expression growing shrewd beyond its natural lines. "You have a plan?"

"I do. But I shall keep it to myself. Forgive me, Madame Black-Briar, but you do have a reputation and I would rather not tangle with you over something as trivial as tit for tat." I manufactured one of my false smiles.

"I have nothing to do with the Thieves' Guild—if such a thing even exists," Maven smiled. "I don't know why you'd think I would."

That _is_ the official story.

"Then I suppose I shall have to engage directly with them. I had hoped for the benefit of experience, but it seems I was mistaken. Forgive me for believing you had anything to do with such… shady… people." Half of dealing with people is telling them what they want to hear in a way that they accept as plausible. How can you seemingly argue with someone who backs down and admits your point of view was correct? The answer is 'not easily.'

-L-

Maven contacted me the day after our meeting after I had lunch with Mjoll the Lioness. An uncompromising crusader, I made no moves to court her into joining my household—such as it was—because I knew Maven would be watching us. Enough that she sees Mjoll and I are cordially friendly; it's better to get rid of a crusader in a crooked town by having her choose to leave with no hard feelings than to conveniently _remove her_.

That draws too much attention to the crookedness of the town in question. It might go so far as to rally the populace.

Maven is a tough negotiator when one wishes to buy or sell her something tangible. This was a new kind of business, and I knew the suggestion that the Stormcloaks recognized her value would remain with her, even if she didn't put much credence into it.

Who doesn't like to be in a position to come out on top no matter who wins? Not Maven of the Fantastic Business Sense Black-Briar.

She acceded to my request for contacts to whom I could speak and upon whom I could call should I need them. After all, it was better to stay in the loop than risk my being savvy enough or having deep enough pockets that they might want to keep their mouths shut in her presence.

The two fellows we met at the Bee and Barb could not have been more different from one another.

The first fellow was introduced as Mercer Frey, an aging Imperial with a nasty look about him. A throat-slitter if ever I saw one. Apparently _he_ was in charge. I didn't like the look of him and mentally refused to deal with him if I could at all help it.

The other was the redhead from the Ragged Flagon who answered to Brynjolf—no last name. He had softer eyes and a less unpleasant demeanor. He had the look of a capable aide. He spoke little and listened well.

"I appreciate meeting you both, though I think I will prefer to trouble Brynjolf if anything comes up in future," I declared simply.

"Oh?" Mercer glared at me as if he could look through me.

I looked placidly back at him. "If you didn't intend to offer a choice of go-betweens you wouldn't have brought him with you. Think of it this way: I won't be a draw on your precious time."

Mercer wasn't satisfied with this, but I think he'll come around. He just doesn't like having his lieutenant favored. He's Maven's kind of person, open to bloody solutions instead of a light touch.

The meeting, didn't last long. Naturally, substance for such a thing wouldn't allow for long, deep conversations since I didn't have any particular task at the moment beyond creating ties—however loose they might be.

It was only after Brynjolf and Mercer left, once the meet-and-greet was concluded—that Maven spoke again. "Well?"

"I shall certainly convey to the necessary ears how business-minded you are," I answered. "I don't foresee the need for you to do much except permit me to go about my business. That's the best sort, isn't it? When the only hand you need to lift is the one to acknowledge thanks or receive payment?" I put on my light wrap. "I'll speak with Mjoll tomorrow and, hopefully, be away with her a few days after."

"Don't cross me, Leandra." Maven said darkly.

I glanced at her over my shoulder. "That's such an awful thing to say to someone. Rude, even for you."

"I mean it. My reach is long."

I smiled at her, turning around. Then the smile slipped away, revealing the ice behind as I leaned on the table. "The day you're even _suspected_ in my death is the day my agent puts an arrow in your eye. I'll be dead but you'll come screaming after."

And, to prove my point, I took her glass of wine and drained it, setting it back down. "I'll speak with Mjoll tomorrow and, hopefully, be away with her a few days after," I repeated, snapping my pleasant face back on, taking in the way Maven's mouth had thinned. This time though, there was unease in the anger. I wasn't the Leandra she knew anymore, and now she was painfully aware of it. "I hope that's agreeable to you?"

"Yes, quite agreeable," Maven declared. The short phrase, accompanied even though it was by a murderous look, spoke for itself.

Goodness, I must have truly startled her. I've never heard her speak only three words and yet speak them so politely—and by polite I mean 'dismissive, as if it weren't important either way.'

I withdrew to my own room and looked at myself in the mirror for a long time.

-L-

23 Sun's Dawn

(Bee and Barb Inn, Riften)

Dear Ralof,

Are you surprised to hear from me? I suppose I'll be back in Windhelm and will see you in person before you get this, but as you showed me it really is the thought that counts with correspondence.

It's been a difficult few days, but I think I have everything settled satisfactorily. Well, as well as can be expected. The favor-for-a-favor method of getting things done has hit a snag, but it's the sort of snag that can be resolved by patience and gold. I should be happy with that, since I usually possess patience in spades.

Do you know what I think? I think the reason I don't feel truly satisfied with the work is because I'm lonely and there's only me when I'm not working. I didn't know how much I enjoyed drinking with you and the lads (say hello to them for me?) until I found myself drinking alone.

I don't have you or the others and it's odd—I actually had to knock a drunk in the face to get him to leave me alone (don't worry, the bruises will fade. His, not mine). I missed Avulstein laughing at the top of his lungs the way he does when I show my claws.

I don't think you'd like it here, but part of me would like to hear your opinion on the place from you. At the very least, the mead is good (even if the owner of the meadery is a dreadful woman—and that coming from _me_ ). I think they put a hint of lavender in it.

I wish I had more to say, but I'm afraid I don't. I've never been a dedicated student of writing personal letters.

See you in Windhelm,

Leandra


	20. Chapter 20

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80, who looks over these chapters.

-L-

The snag upon which I'd hit was getting Mjoll out of Riften—I'd brought it up with her after discussing a position as Steward in my household with Aerin. He would go, because he was worried about Mjoll—and would be all the more willing should the tensions between Mjoll and shall we call it 'the establishment' increased.

He's all for causes and thoroughly supports her work… but at the end of the day he'd rather have her safe somewhere else than being martyred for Riften.

Mjoll, when the subject was broached, wouldn't simply pack up and go, which didn't surprise me. She brought up an old topic, then set off to leave Aerin and me in contemplative silence.

This resistance was not at all unexpected. In fact, I'd be disappointed if she did pack up and come with me right then—although it would have made my life a little easier.

Her flat refusal left me with two options. The least complicated was to use Madame Black-Briar as a fulcrum and Aerin as the balance to lever Mjoll out. Mjoll is terribly stubborn and I could see this as being a very time-consuming thing with not a lot of result to show for longer than I would like.

The second option involved hiring someone—I decided on the Companions since they're a reliable sort of mercenary band with a good reputation, expensive as they are—to find Mjoll's missing blade, Grimsever. She believes in signs and warnings, admitted herself when she first told me about how she came to Riften that she took its loss as a sign she should return from adventure and pursuit of gold to pursue justice for others.

I didn't need to reopen the subject with her: I felt confident that a return of the sword coupled with a little strategic pressure from Madame (resulting in lobbying from Aerin) would get Mjoll out of Riften and up to Windhelm where her efforts would be both appreciated and probably more successful.

That, however, required a trip to Whiterun. That had its own additional benefits.

I didn't set out immediately for two reasons: one, I would look like I was running off in a great hurry which isn't becoming. Secondly, I needed a maid.

I needed someone to keep an eye on the house's upkeep and my own wellbeing because I fully expected—as was not uncommon while living in Solitude—to find myself up to my ears in work and needing a little looking-after. It would also be a comforting return to the standard of living I'd appreciated for most of my life. A little familiarity in life would be a gift.

The candidate I was considering at Aerin's recommendation—his knowledge of people and situations is remarkable, and another reason for adding him to my household—arrived at my room in the Bee and Barb in a state of exceeding nervousness. Aerin is not without understanding of the fact that my work may be confidential—hence why I wanted people I knew, people I could trust. I don't think he went so far as to think I picked him and Mjoll strictly because A) I knew them and B) could bank on their personalities to be what I needed, but he did understand that elevating someone out of a bad situation is a great thing to induce loyalty.

Or maybe Aerin, who's a sweet man start to finish, simply wanted to get this good girl out of a bad situation before it spoiled her in one way or another. And this sounded _very_ in character for him.

Svana was a pretty Nord girl, who looked like someone walking on eggshells. This wasn't surprising, as she'd never met me; she was simply that eager to get away from her aunt's establishment. Just by looking at her, I knew I'd be well served: this was someone who had nothing _but_ that establishment to go back to, without letters of reference or anything else. She would be blind, deaf, mute and uncurious if it meant preserving her place.

"Good afternoon," I declared, stepping aside so she could enter the room—the nicest in the Bee and Barb, since it had more space and was meant to allow the resident to receive guests.

Her clothes were simple things, rough and uninspired in shades of 'muted' and 'drab.' She, herself, was pretty in spite of the clothes with rosy cheeks, chestnut hair and big eyes.

"My dear friend Aerin says you are looking for a situation and felt that you would be content with a domestic position."

"Yes, ma'am," she answered. "That's what he said—you were looking for a maid and he thought of me." She studied me in fleeting, jerky movements, hands unconsciously pleating her skirt.

I looked her up and down again. "Well, let's not take any blood oaths about it just yet. You may find life in Windhelm disagrees with you. The city is, I must admit, an acquired taste." An acquired taste I was still working on acquiring, myself.

Her brow creased. Here was a girl, then, with very little guile. Good. I've enough for two, probably three. I don't think I could bear it in a maid. "Ma'am," then, when I nodded that she should continue, "whether or not the city disagrees with me is beside the point. I've been…" she paused, but took courage and continued when I indicated a second time that she ought to share what was on her mind. "I've been looking for a way out of Riften for some time. Aerin saying there was a great lady who needed a maidservant was like a gift from the Divines. I'll be whatever you need if it would get me out of here."

'Great lady' indeed. But, as I said, I've no need for guile in a maid. The formal tone she seemed to think best spoke well, however—with a little polish it won't seem so affected.

At this point, her eyes wandered from my face to my clothes—neat and serviceable, but fashionable and hinting at belonging to someone of consequence—and took in the way I wore and ornamented my hair. I'd gone back to wearing the Imperial-style net, which is far more comfortable and convenient than having my hair in my way—and which is far more attractive than the plaits and ponytails that are popular as an alternative.

I did, however, make the minor concession to my current affiliations by using a net of silver and a blue stone known as 'poor man's lapis.'

Her interest was piqued. Now comes the sugar. "Well, Svana, why don't you tell me what you're good at, hm? And let's do sit down. You look absolutely distressed and I don't insist on a great deal of ceremony when it's not needful."

I led her over to the table by the window and took one of the chairs.

"I should tell you, my house is only just now beginning to assemble itself. I hope to have better furnishings soon." I hope to have actual furnishings, soon. "But nothing is truly wanting… merely below my standards." Or will be, once I get back and can put in a few orders. The thing is to get Mjoll out of Riften as quickly as possible before that wretched Black-Briar woman does something awful to her.

Svana settled on the chair, ladylike and proper. Her posture was good, too. The maid reflects on the mistress, which is why these things matter. Polish her up a bit and dress her properly and she'll look the part of the smart young lady's maid to a woman of consequence—which, as a Thane of Windhelm, I am.

"Now, if you please, we were discussing your capabilities."

"I do housekeeping for my aunt," Svana said, "who owns the Bunkhouse just over there." She indicated with her hand rather than pointing the place out. "I clean and cook—and for more than just a handful of people."

Perfect. I can't very well ask Aerin to do that sort of thing. He handles finances and clerical work, and perhaps some of my personal documents and business. "Can you read?"

"Yes, ma'am. Enough to get by. It… it isn't my _strongest_ point," she added, flushing.

"No need to look so worried. I simply wouldn't like to write something down for you and embarrass or shame you because you couldn't read it," I answered smoothly. "Now, it is crass but it must be discussed. How much does your aunt pay you and upon what schedule?"

Svana flushed again, regarding hands now twisting in her skirts. "I'm with my aunt because I had nowhere else to go. Cheap labor, you understand," she almost mumbled.

"Ah, so room and board. Maybe a coin now and again to play with when she was in a spectacularly good humor?" I ventured.

Svana nodded again, clearly unwilling to speak ill of her aunt, whatever feelings she might harbor for the woman. Another good trait.

Well, that kind of arrangement would never do. Not for my establishment, anyway. "I was thinking it might be best to put you on trial to see if the life and work agree with you. However, I begin to think it might not be necessary. Aerin's word goes so far with me."

"Ma'am, I'd scrub hands and knees for a tavern if it got me away from Riften," Svana said softly, still looking at the floor. There was so much conviction in her tone that I felt satisfied with the view I expressed: no probation needed. The creases being formed in her skirt from the pressure of the hands fisting in them supported this.

"I don't think that will be at all necessary. So let's discuss your position. My work for the Jarl occupies me a great deal. Therefore, I need a smart, trusty girl. You'd be expected to clean and cook and perhaps to accompany me or run errands. In return…" I eyed her thoughtfully, coalescing my ideas. "You may have a written contract with me that outlines your responsibilities to me and my responsibilities to you." Writing things down is a good way to ensure all one's ideas are accurately represented. The opportunity to revise before committing is a wonderful thing.

She didn't look as though this made much sense to her. That wasn't surprising. Much of Skyrim, those parts that doesn't have a strong Imperial influence, tend to prefer the spoken contract to the written one. 'Imperials and their lists' as Ralof said.

"It means that if I fail in my obligations, you have legal recourse," I clarified and received a soft 'oh!' which made me smile inwardly. It was not going to be hard to tie her faithfully to my household.

I got up, producing a writing case of paper, ink, and quills from my baggage. Returning to the table, but not sitting down again, I began to write briskly on it.

"In return for your service, you may quit me at any time and shall be returned to Riften at my expense." Because, of course, I wouldn't be able to have her traipsing about without knowing exactly what's in her head. My work is sensitive.

"As soon as it can be arranged—that is to say, we leave tomorrow and will see to this the day after we arrive—will have two new working dresses and one more formal gown, and the appropriate outer clothes since Windhelm is not Riften by any stretch of the imagination. I know a local seamstress who is utterly marvelous. Additionally, every third month you will receive either an allotment to purchase the materials for a new gown or an allotment to purchase a gown ready-made according to your preference."

The relief on her face indicated she'd never learned needlecraft particularly well.

"I shall pay you room, board, and a stipend that will secure you some independence… shall we say… five septims a day to start." It should be borne in mind that a night at an inn costs about ten septims, and a good meal besides would bring the total up to something like fifteen or eighteen. As I was providing room and board, five septims a day over those expenses could not be considered parsimonious… nor could it be called excessively generous.

"Let's see…" I mused, discreetly watching her expression open like a flower. "Half a day on a day of your choice every week to be used as you see fit—provided breakfast and supper are supplied—and a weekend of your choice per month during which time I and my household shall make shift for ourselves. You may, of course, save up these weekends should you wish to plan a holiday proper."

This is not as generous an arrangement as might be thought, but I knew well by this point that any provisions I made would be considered generous by this simple girl. I was aware her current wardrobe was that of a parsimonious patron, which means she needs new clothes or it will look as though _I_ treat her shabbily—and with the image I'm cultivating, that wouldn't do at all. Also, Riften is so much warmer than Windhelm. Apart from that, my former maid Lily—who looked after Lucinda and me—had much more generous terms and I was familiar with those terms.

One of the things I learned growing up is that you can always increase generosity but it's impolitic to decrease it without good reason. It's best not to be too generous all at once.

"In return, I expect my home to be maintained on a creditable level and three meals a day—with additional refreshment upon request, as I may often have guests. Should you require instruction I will ask if one of the palace under-cooks can be released from normal duties for brief lessons."

The cook at the Palace of the Kings is quite the general: he likes having more people than he strictly needs… and Ulfric is thoroughly (perhaps even blissfully) unaware. It helps on feast days, of course, but just day to day… I'm sure Heinrich would release one of his underlings… for an acquisition of some rare whatever, if a name drop doesn't produce the desired result.

"As you will be responsible for purchasing necessary ingredients, you must be able to keep a record of expenditures to be turned in to Aerin. How is your ciphering ability?" I asked, pausing before writing.

Because, of course, a thane can get things on credit, bills to be paid by her steward upon receipt. It's best not to surprise the fellow who manages your money.

"I can keep a ledger well enough," Svana answered eagerly, her face flushed. "At least, I can write the numbers to be balanced later. I-I'm sure with a little practice…"

I kept a wider smile from crossing my face. First enumerate the gain, then the responsibility—especially since this girl has had so little of either. "That will be fine."

Svana nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent… we were at household finances to allow for the purchase of those items necessary to carry out your duties." This was not meant, by any means, to be a complete listing, just enough to give her the feeling of security. "I think that covers just about everything… oh, there is one more stipulation."

Svana regarded me in avid silence.

"As with most people of consequence, and who are in the employ of a Jarl, you may see and hear things that should not leave my household. I expect unswerving discretion." This time, there was no good humor, no smiling pleasantry. Just cold ice. I didn't need to employ the threat that if I thought for one moment that she had done anything to compromise anything I was working on I would take drastic and immediate measures.

"I-I understand, of course," Svana said, unnerved by the sudden coldness, the glimpse behind the mask.

I hiked the mask back up. "I'm sorry I have to be so severe on that point, but you surely understand."

She nodded, still looking unnerved.

"Now, we both sign this paper and you keep it somewhere safe," I said, signing briskly before turning the paper and handing her the inked stylus.

She shakily wrote her name—I though more from nerves than bad penmanship—then watched as I fanned the paper to dry the ink before folding it up and handing it to her. She took it then slipped it into the little pouch at her hip, one hand lingering protectively over it.

"Excellent. We leave tomorrow. I will arrange for you to stay here, at the Bee and Barb, and will speak to your aunt. No doubt she would be quite ill-spoken to you, and I simply won't have it. As of this moment you're no longerher drudge. I take it you won't object to gathering your things immediately?"

"Not at all, my lady," Svana said, bobbing an unpracticed but charming curtsey.

"That will do for being out in public. However, when we are at home and with only the household you needn't be so formal."

"Thank you, ma'am."

I started off, Svana falling in just behind me, bobbing at my shoulder.

I opened the door to find an anxious Aerin loitering. He looked suitably abashed at being caught. "I knew you'd make a wonderful selection," I said pleasantly. "Svana is _just_ the girl for my household."

Aerin smiled at this, a crease in his brow easing. "I thought she would be. Uh… perhaps she shouldn't stay at the Bunkhouse until you leave?" His brow crinkled dubiously at the very thought.

"And so she won't," I answered, sensing his willingness to allow her houseroom at his home until we left. "She'll be staying with me, give her time to get used to me and I to her. And I am just now off to speak to her aunt about this change in employ."

That's something else about being a woman of consequence: you can't allow harpies to harass the staff. It reads as an insult to the employer.

-L-

The journey to Windhelm had been pleasant: Svana was a chatty girl, sweet and unspoiled by life as her aunt's drudge. Her excitement and enthusiasm about traveling and about her destination, even her unease about living in the middle of the Stormcloak Movement's largest stronghold (as she knew them only by reputation), were all aired once she decided I was truthful in my assertion that I didn't mind her chatter.

I didn't: it provided a lovely background noise for my own thoughts. Once she got started she lost track of whether or not she was being answered, so glad to speak and do so freely was she. And yet I did notice that however much she spoke she never said anything she shouldn't, never said a word against her aunt, never said anything that could compromise anyone—for I had the feeling she was covering up something for her aunt.

It was the best kind of discretion: the sort that is hidden under idle chatter.

"Here we are," I announced, slipping off my horse once Svana herself had dismounted. She wasn't used to riding, poor soul, and however far we walked during the day I was sure the trip had left her quite sore.

"Oh…" Svana, wrapped in her deepest-winter-in-Riften cloak shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. Windhelm is, I suppose, a large and imposing town. Maybe I was simply numb to it by this point. Or maybe just eager to take out a room at Candelhearth and call for a hot bath and a good dinner.

Part of me wanted to leave Svana at Candlehearth before going to pay my respects to the Jarl, but since she might end by being my courier to the palace I supposed it was best to allow her to be seen as quickly as possible so she might be easily recognized.

Ulfric was not holding court, and the door to his strategy room was closed.

"My lady."

The voice—an imperative hail—belonged to Jorleif, Ulfric's steward.

"Sir," I nodded deferentially to him.

"I was to inform you, Madame, that without your proper name your paperwork could not be completed. If you'll follow me?"

I obeyed, feeling perplexed by careful not to show it. My… paperwork?

Jorleif led me to a small office space, little more than an office cubby from which he extracted a folded set of papers, which he unfolded and handed to me.

' _Having received payment (12,000s. as agreed), the following are to be delivered into the possession of Madame Leandra_ [a space was left for me to add my surname] _, Thane of Windhelm:'_

Before reading the list, I scanned to the bottom. Ulfric had already signed and dated it—and done so the day I left for Riften. All it required was adding my surname—and I wasn't sure I wanted to use my proper one, things being as they stood with regards to my familial attachments—and my signature down at the bottom.

I penned in 'Grey' as my surname. It was the first thing that came to mind. Ashes are grey, 'ash' being the root word of 'Ashlynn.' It was enough for me to remember. Grey is also a shade between black and white, between two extremes without actually being either. I do love my word games.

The bill of sale for Hjerim—a bill clearly absorbed up by the royal treasury since the royal treasury owned the house—was accompanied by a list of items included in the 'sale,' beginning with purifications performed by both the local Priest of Talos and the Priest of Arkay and ending in providing the basic furnishings for the major rooms—the latter of which tallied some 3,000 or so septims.

I re-read the whole document, then signed it and put it in my traveling satchel. "Thank you, Steward."

"It is our lord's wish that I should escort you to your residence and ensure that everything on the list has been delivered. The last of your purchases were delivered only last night, you understand."

I took this to mean 'I have additional information to impart, and don't want/am under orders not to do it here.'

"Of course. It's gracious of our lord and you to take such interest in my affairs."

The walk to Hjerim was chilly and I seriously hoped Jorleif wouldn't mention the house's… disturbing… history to Svana. I didn't worry about vengeful or sorrowing spirits or anything like that, but I can see how such a history might be troublesome to others.

The furniture was all sturdy, well-made stuff that made me think Ulfric had simply cleaned out an unused suite or two in the palace and had it all moved in here. If so, I approved the thriftiness. "My lord Ulfric wished me to convey this to you as well," Jorleif announced, handing me a sealed envelope. "It is the enumeration of responsibilities Madame requested of him."

I didn't miss that Svana seemed particularly surprised to discover that this thing about written contracts extended to the upper echelon of the Stormcloak movement.

I didn't unseal the envelope, merely waited for Jorleif to either elaborate or change the subject.

When it became apparent I was waiting, Jorleif nodded. "Good evening, Thane." With that, he withdrew.

"Well, let's have a look at our new home," I announced, putting Ulfric's letter in with the bill of sale.

Previously, I'd only looked around the ground floor—I was grateful to discover that the place where Calixto had been working had been converted into a small nook and had been scrubbed to perfection as well as purified by the priests. I didn't feel any unease upon stepping in there, couldn't smell the faintest whiff of gore or the most minute waft of whatever cleansing methods had been used.

It was a first class job on a first class mess. The palace staff was to be congratulated.

Bedrooms were upstairs, a master suite and two smaller ones. It meant I would need to make a minor arrangement or two since I had four people and not three. The small room nearest the main suite was perfect for Svana, who I immediately installed before sending her with a bag of gold to Candlehearth so that she might buy us dinner because it was ridiculous to think about either of us cooking.

Ulfric had been careful when he wrote down what was expected of me. He wasn't what I could call a particularly subtle mind, but he wasn't a fool.

Officially, I was a diplomat and an advisor in diplomatic affairs, given the liberty to identify and resolve those issues I felt most needful of special attention. That was it. It was vague and easily interpreted or reinterpreted. He hadn't tried to be specific in what he wanted and, in not doing so, had left me most able to advance his war.

The rest of the letter enumerated the kinds of resources now at my disposal: my housecarl and steward were provided at the expense of the Jarl himself—this had already been discussed.

I was to be paid a weekly stipend which anyone could call 'befitting a servant of the Crown (so to speak).' That was, reading between the lines, as much for travel expenses I might incur as well as the running of my household.

I was permitted to make requisitions against Windhelm's treasury for unforeseen expenses or expenses in my official capacity. I read this to include bribes I might need to pay. Some, people might bridle at the insinuation of being open to bribery, but in my line of work… well. Whatever works—though I will say that bribes only go so far, unless the one taking them is afraid of provoking you. Otherwise, it gets a more and more expensive over time. I also had the impression these 'requisitions' were to enable me to play a kind of shell game to ensure that my story of 'business in Windhelm' would continue to stand up as my duties became more demanding. This wasn't a concern: now that I was a person of some consequence, I could back off my assistance and become a simple financial backer to Ysolda's efforts. Her connection with me would secure her place in the ever-changing political climate.

I was accorded use of five six-man units to pull into service when and as I saw fit: Thorald's, Avulstein's, Geirlund's, Vidrald's and Ralof's. They'd each been given their own small commands in my absence, which told me that Ulfric was as quick and careful with military decisions as I was with those inside my own sphere of expertise. Olaf was attached to Geirlund's unit. My requirement of their services was absolute, which meant that they would be on patrol and hunter-seeker type duties unless I indicated otherwise. I felt confident in my ability to keep them busy and feeling useful without leaving myself in need of muscle I didn't have. That was simply how I managed their rotations. Like rotating stock.

I was permitted to join the Jarl's table as if I was a member of the household—and I had the impression I was _expected_ to put in appearances every so often. That was fine, not the least because it was hinted I should keep him up to date on the big picture and such things should never be written down.

By the time Svana returned with dinner, I was quite content with the state of things and had begun re-reading Ulfric's letter in minute detail, extracting from it the most minute details, reading between the lines of subtext and nuance—I didn't find much, but I completed the exercise before turning my attention to the supper Svana had selected: a rich hoarker stew, coarse bread, and a thick wedge of eider cheese all accompanied by bottles of mead.

"Tomorrow I shall take you to the seamstress to have your new clothes fitted," I announced, once supper was finished. I'd have to send her to Candlehearth for breakfast, since I intended to put in my first appearance in the morning, both to thank the Jarl for his generosity and to make my reports or take whatever immediate orders he might have.

Svana tried not to look too thrilled, but she wasn't very good at it.

That's alright: I'm good enough at that sort of thing for two or three people.


	21. Chapter 21

Thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

I arrived at the Palace of the Kings at eight, a little after the start of breakfast. I've never been much for breakfast, since one only sleeps on supper, so I toyed with porridge and dried fruits, with sweetened milk and toast. If Ulfric wanted a word, he'd indicate as much. If not, I would repair straight home to finish packing and arranging domestic manners.

I planned to put Svana into the hands of the seamstress just before I left the city. My hope was that Svana would settle into Windhelm in my absence as she managed my estate. I have confidence in people who inspire it and Svana was so unsettled that I felt I had two options: leave her to sort herself out or mollycoddle her—which wouldn't do either of us any favors.

So, in reality, I only had the one option. Breakfast wasn't wasted if I could sort _something_ out. My bigger concern…

…was put on hold the instant Ulfric finished his meal. He turned his attention to me for the first time that morning and indicated very discreetly the direction of his strategy room.

I bowed my head in assent, set aside my things and followed both him and Galmar into the small room.

"I hope the arrangements are satisfactory?" Ulfric asked without preamble, once the door was closed.

"You have been most generous, my lord. I look forward to beginning my service to you in earnest."

Ulfric didn't mince words. He picked up the yellow flag on his strategy map and held it out to me.

I took it from between his thick fingers, studying the scrap of ribbon.

"I want Whiterun."

I twirled the pin between my fingers, watching the ribbon flare out like the plait on a spinning girl. "I will leave today."

"Already?" Ulfric didn't sound surprised. In fact, when I regarded him I found his expression quite neutral—the kind of neutrality, I hasten to add, that one adopts when studying something for a discernible pattern, the way one might listen to a series of musical notes in order to find the refrain.

"I must contract a service from the Companions and I had hoped to reinforce both my cover and my contacts," I answered. "Thus, I was intending to leave as soon as I felt sure you had no immediate instructions for me."

"I've given them," Ulfric answered simply. "I want Whiterun—or at least, suggestions about how to do it."

I chuckled at this sudden addendum, as though he wanted to be quite clear I wasn't to go starting any wars—so to speak—without consulting him first. I suppose my hands-on, go-forward attitude might make that seem like a concern. Or maybe he just didn't want to deal with Balgruuf's corpse instead of Balgruuf himself. "You will not regret placing me in a position requiring diplomatic skills, my lord."

"Good."

I took this as dismissal, bobbed a curtsey and withdrew to leave the men to their map—now devoid of Whiterun's yellow flag. I'll return it to him when I have a plan. After all… 'I want Whiterun.'

-L-

Whiterun was gloriously sunny, and I noticed this particularly, since Eastmarch saw fit to snow on me just enough to be annoying but not enough to impede travel. Ah, well.

"Leandra!" Ysolda yelped as she opened her door in the early morning to find me smiling at her.

"I see my message did not precede me," I sighed, then returned her hug.

"It certainly didn't," she answered, moving back and motioning me inside. "I take it you just got back?"

"I arrived last night." The little house still had merchandise piled up in the back, but it also had a nice, heavy strongbox. "The fruits of my most recent journeys," I said, handing over both an inventory of requested items and a bag of gold which Ysolda smiled at before adding to the general store—she'd count it out later.

"I have to say, better you than me. I've been hearing the most horrible things out of Windhelm."

"Oh?" I asked.

"Tea?"

"I'll get it. What's this about Windhelm?" I moved about, fixing the tea, more to avoid watching her avidly as she either did or did not tell me something I didn't know.

"Apparently Ulfric's getting impatient and Balgruuf's getting angry. The worry is that it's going to be war."

It's already war. This is just the last faction deciding where he stands.

"How-how is it really?" she asked. "Maybe you shouldn't go back."

"It's cold, and many of the people are quite disagreeable. But not much worse than the feuding houses and Belethor, here," I answered dryly. "Merchants enjoy a certain respect not only from the populace but especially when that populace has trouble obtaining non-wartime goods. More than that, any Jarl worth his salt will not hamper trade overmuch, since coin into the coffers is always a good thing."

Ysolda was quiet for a few more minutes. "…doesn't that mean we're supporting the Stormcloaks?" she asked uneasily.

"No more than the East Empire Company does," I answered. "It all depends on what Balgruuf does, and since he does nothing this is our season." I set the tea to steep before sitting down at the carefully scrubbed table. "How are things with the Khajiit?"

Ysolda smiled. "Mutually beneficial! I think… oh, Leandra…" she leaned forward, a blush coloring her cheeks. "I think… I think we may be working towards an actual business partnership!"

It could only benefit them in future, assuming my connections stay both highly placed and strong. I listened as she elaborated the deal she had with the caravans to move her goods from Hold to Hold for a percentage of the profit… and how her name in Whiterun allowed them better access to the city and her honesty ensured that profits were fairly distributed.

This was all well and good, and it was from them that much of her gossip came. Most of it was the mundane stuff, and all of it was stilted by the fact that many of the major cities wouldn't let the Khajiit in to do business. However, the minor Holds and small settlements weren't quite so picky. Coin and goods were coin and goods.

My thoughts immediately slipped to the fact that so much real news was outside my reach—not just real news, but the speedy communication of it. What I needed were people, chosen people, in the Holds, major or minor. People who either partisans (but without actually donning the blue of the Stormcloak movement) or who had enough 'free loyalty' to buy and were in a position to require a patroness.

Whiterun was easy: I simply needed someone in House Grey-Mane—though perhaps not Fralia or Eorlund. This was more sentiment than anything else.

I had to flick through my mental list of people I know, and wondered how many hand-picked Stormcloaks (or partisans) I would have to seed throughout the Empire and how/where to place them.

Falkreath was easy. Ridiculously easy, since Siddgeir is stupid and avaricious. He's a butt in a seat as far as much of the Hold is concerned… and a threat to the Hold, as far as others are concerned. 'Others' include my acquaintance Valga Vinicia, who runs the local inn.

A charming woman, wholly dedicated to Falkreath… I believe she's not a partisan for either side in this war: her loyalties are to Falkreath… and, if I'm any judge of people, she's the sort of person Siddgeir would consider a threat. Not that he's quite stupid enough to do anything to lessen the taxes he can exact from her business.

Hmm… but if he thought she wasn't a threat, if he thought there was a way to—

"Leandra?"

I blinked. "Yes, if you can come to a permanent arrangement that would be most beneficial."

She beamed, clearly unaware that I'd been giving her only half of my attention. This settled, she turned her attention to the inventory I'd brought. I don't trade in wartime materiel, most of the time, so all of the things on my list were fairly innocuous.

-L-

He glared at me all through the meeting, which did nothing for my mood.

I'd used the Companions before, but at that time Ysolda made the arrangements. This time, since the task was personal, I had to do it. She never warned me that Kodlak's… what, second in command?... had such an unfavorable aspect.

I did my best to ignore him, but something about his fixity of attention made me feel like prey and I didn't like it. "The sword is large, with 'Grimsever' in the Old Tongue etched into the blade. It was lost deep in Mzinchaleft, which is in Hjaalmarch," I declared. "Apparently there was some Dwemer monstrosity down there—a truly large thing made of metal."

"The chances of finding a sword in a place like that are spectacularly low," Kodlak noted. "You are aware of this?"

"Hence why I brought the matter to the Companions. Your membership is excellent at challenges—and if you've never seen a Dwemer steamwork…" I shook my head. I'd never actually seen one myself, but the reports are all bad. That they're ridiculously strong, resilient to magicka, and because they don't feel pain and don't need to remain totally intact to be effective they're quite… well. I wouldn't want to fight even one of the small ones.

The answer was really too complimentary to be turned down—and if Kodlak meant to turn it down he would have done so at this point. As it was, he did not.

"And I assume there is a timeframe for this?"

"I would prefer not to be waiting for months; even weeks in the plural is stretching it. But it's not a matter of life and death, either." At least, I hope not.

I'd given some thought to placing someone in Riften and had decided to try my luck with a down-on-his luck mage I met during my last visit—assuming he was still there. Doing magical odd jobs and hoping to be hired as protection or whatever isn't a good way to get through life—although hoping to be hired on in such a fashion is not exactly uncommon in Skyrim. Add a substantial amount of gold to get him started, I might be able to find a way to get him into Laila's court because, of course, a Thane hears things the local populace doesn't. And if I can keep my association with him quiet he'd be an asset in keeping an eye on Maven once she's been installed as Jarl.

To go from hopeful hireling to a man of consequence, and all he has to do it keep me up to date on the news and gossip coming out of Riften… that's not exactly a taxing responsibility.

And I can trust that there will be no loudmouth tendencies such as the Stormcloaks so often display. That will be a little peace of mind.

I need to find out how far ahead Ulfric has gotten with regards to replacing Jarls. Then I need to screen these candidates—I would hate to think he was of the 'comrade's club' school of thought, ignoring what's best in favor of what's familiar… but judging by Galmar… well, better safe than sorry.

"Very well," Kodlak finally announced, nodding. "What do you think?"

"Phoebe. Send Farkas with her," Kodlak's second grunted after thinking for a moment. "She's got good eyes and he can flatten anything bigger than she is."

"That's not difficult," Kodlak almost chuckled, shaking his head.

The second's mouth twisted into what might have been a smile, as if both amused by and fond of the girl in question.

"I have just the girl." Kodlak produced a sheet of paper and began to write briskly, outlining the terms of the contract.

"Payment upon receipt, if you please," I said. "As I don't live in Whiterun and—as you said—this is a mission whose outcome is questionable."

I regarded the price of the task, considered what doing it myself would involve, then signed the paper, leaving Fralia's address in case I was still in Whiterun and my address in Windhelm in case I wasn't. I handed the paper back to Kodlak, who took it and smiled kindly at me. "It shall be attended."

With that, I thanked him and withdrew. I reposed confidence in the Companions' ability to get the job done.

I just wish I'd convened with Ulfric about his future plans… but decided it would not have been a productive conversation unless I had specific points to discuss. Well, now I had specific points. Too bad it wasn't something I could just send him a courier about. Some things really shouldn't be written down.

-L-

I spent that day and the next in Whiterun, mostly shoring up contacts and panning the waters. I did get to see the two Companions I'd hired leave—one was a mammoth of a man who looked even larger than he probably was because of the small, curvy Breton chatting happily to him. They looked quite mismatched, the tiny woman with her two light axes and the behemoth carrying a sword almost as big as his companion was.

Whatever works, I suppose.

More to the point, Ulfric wanted Whiterun—and I take this to mean 'if Balgruuf won't respond to reason.' Otherwise why employ me?

Balgruuf is a widower of several years. His wife, Roswitha died of fever when his youngest was two—that was five years ago. He's given no sign of an intention to remarry, despite being the sort of fellow who needs to crook a finger to summon a legion of admirers. And, with my fairly unbiased view of the matter, he was good-looking enough for many faults to be forgiven.

His chief detracting feature is a quick temper, but quick tempers are useful: they flare and die quickly, allowing for acts of contrition afterwards. I don't know how this manifests in his home life, but it may be one reason his children are so overindulged—he doesn't want to risk acting in anger.

He has three children: Frothar, Dagny, and Nelkir—all of whom are impudent, rude, and thoroughly overindulged by their father. They're brats and I was sassed by one of them without provocation when I made a discreet trip into Dragonsreach on pretense of speaking to Farengar Secret-Fire who was (as I very well knew) at Arcadia's Cauldron when I arrived.

Balgruuf also keeps his kin close, his brother Hrongar being his right-hand man—though not his housecarl. His housecarl is a rather formidable Dunmer by name of Irileth—all of this is common knowledge.

For many reasons I would like Balgruuf to throw in with the Stormcloaks: he has many qualities that highlight the best of Skyrim's culture, and his open-mindedness about differing kinds of people (barring the Khajiiti traders, who really are foreigners) would be a good example for the rest of the Empire.

The problem with Balgruuf is twofold. Firstly, he's not a man to be pushed around and might act out of sheer contrariness whatever his personal convictions might be if he is. Secondly, the Dragonborn is not only his Thane but is rumored to be a good friend—witness the dragontooth dagger she presented him as a gift, a weapon part of a set and which was no doubt her way of making sure everyone knew of her association with him.

Now, how good a friend is up for debate. There's a rumor floating around that they're lovers, but with the amount of time she supposedly spends out of Whiterun I rather doubt it. It's the fancies of the idle romantics.

Regardless, one doesn't antagonize the Dragonborn, because she has thrown in with neither the Stormcloaks nor the Legion. So if Balgruuf won't ally with the Stormcloaks his downfall and treatment after his city is taken will need to be performed carefully. That way, we can say if asked: ' _look here, my lady Dragonborn—your friend the Jarl is not badly off, he's been well-treated out of respect for you._ ' I don't think Ulfric will be warm to this—he's the sort to want definitive action and indefinite imprisonment isn't really definitive. Galmar certainly don't like it, but he's a hammer-minded person well-suited to winning battles but not containing the indirect fallout.

Assuming Balgruuf won't be 'reasonable,' I need people on the inside. In this case, I already know: House Grey-Mane. But until I know what Ulfric has planned and what I'm allowed to offer as incentives—because in this instance incentives are the best way to go, the proffered carrot instead of the frozen one—I can't move forward.

I withdrew from Dragonsreach after asking Farengar about means for reliable messaging—I had Wuunferth's solution already, but it wouldn't do for me not to be seen chatting with him since that was supposedly what I was there for.

-L-

1 First Seed

Black-Briar Manor, Riften

Your crusader was arrested this morning for disturbing the peace. I suggest you collect her before she gets herself into even more trouble. The fee to redeem her is 500 septims. Stint of confinement in the Mistveil Keep dungeons is fourteen days.

Madame M. Black-Briar

-L-

1 First Seed

Riften

Dear Leandra,

Maven had Mjoll arrested this morning—supposedly for 'disturbing the peace.' The price to redeem her is 500 septims—Mjoll won't let me pay the fee to get her out. She should be at liberty in a fortnight, but we've got to get her out of here. Maven's been content to ignore her until now, but this willingness to act… it means she's reached the end of her patience. I don't want to think what might happen if Mjoll keeps pushing, and you know how she is. I'll try to talk her into leaving but I have the feeling I'll be wasting my breath. I hope whatever you're doing materializes.

Your friend,

Aerin

-L-

Hjerim had improved since I left. Svana clearly meant it when she said she'd scrub tavern floors on hands and knees to get away from Riften: I didn't doubt one could eat off any inch of the floor one chose. The furniture was all arranged neatly, and the other miscellaneous furnishings had been settled into place according to Svana's tastes—no doubt to be changed if those tastes clashed with mine.

"My lady!" Svana hurried out of the kitchen at the sound of my entering. She looked the part of the neat little housekeeper in her green woolen gown and white apron, her cheeks pink from working in the kitchen. She immediately took my wraps as I toed my shoes off.

"Have I had any mail?" I asked.

"Some. If you'll come into the kitchen, you can warm up and have lunch and I'll fetch your letters."

It wasn't a bad arrangement, so I did so, settling at the small table in the kitchen. The kitchen had the look of 'on a creditable level' being well-stocked with very clean cookware and tableware (which she undoubtedly purchased with the 'operating funds' purse I left her). The girl could certainly manage day-to-day cooking, for the savory odor of a venison stew emerged from a pot. After being on the road in Eastmarch's wretched early First Seed weather the smell and promise of a warm meal made my mouth water.

Svana was back in a moment, carrying a small stack of messages—a copy of the _Riften Town Crier_ ; a copy of the _Solitude Courier_ (passed by an acquaintance in Haafingar); a message from Wuunferth soliciting me to acquire a few things for him; a similar message from Nurelion; a note from Madame Black-Briar, which told me she was keeping Mjoll out from underfoot more than anything else and that if I wanted to make the right impression I would pay Madame the five hundred septims as a goodwill gesture—kickback is more like it, but I digress; and a note from Aerin confirming Maven's assertions about Mjoll.

I frowned at this. I can't exactly tell the Companions to hurry it along.

Svana interrupted my perusal of these messages by setting a bowl of stew on one my right and a plate of fairly fresh bread on my left. Butter and a cup of rich milk appeared a moment later. "I made an apple tart yesterday—I can warm it up a bit and there's plenty of eidar cheese… or cream, if you'd prefer it," Svana said, fidgeting a little as she watched me. "…you did say to keep the kitchen well-stocked…"

Knowing what that meant, I set aside my correspondences, broke off a piece of the bread—which was a bit coarse and a little overbrown on the top, which spoke to unfamiliarity with her new kitchen—and dipped it into the stew. "This is very good," I announced, a little surprised. She'd made it sound like she was fairly so-so in the kitchen. Not if this meal is any indication. "And those were my instructions, yes." I smile at her. "You've gone above and beyond my expectations, Svana. I didn't realize how modest you were being."

She turned pink at the praise. "Shall I heat you a bath?" she asked.

"And see to my purple gown. While I'm bathing, I want you to take a message to Jorleif—ask one of the house guards, tell them the message is from Thane Grey, and they'll conduct you to him." Because, of course, it would be rude and imprudent to simply show up and demand Ulfric's time.

I finished my lunch alone while Svana saw to the heating of water and the lugging of it upstairs.

I should speak to Wuunferth. In Solitude we had warming stones for the bath so the maid only needed to fill the tub and activate them in order to heat the water—or keep it heated in the case of a long soak.

-L-

4 First Seed

Hjerim, Windhelm

My dear Aerin:

I'm still working on a way to convince Mjoll to leave Riften and I'm quite hopeful about its success. With any kind of luck, I will have something before she is released from prison and will be able to collect her at that time.

Additionally, I want to thank you for recommending Svana—she's just the girl for me and, I believe, quite happy with her lot in life. It is my belief that she would thank you for your part in this, so permit me to pass that along on her behalf.

Sincerely,

Leandra

-L-

4 First Seed

Hjerim, Windhelm

To Madame Black-Briar:

Thank you for your message. With any luck I will be able to collect Mjoll before her incarceration ends.

Cordially,

Leandra M.

-L-

To: Jorleif, Steward of Jarl Ulfric

As keeper of our lord's affairs, I would request a moment of His Lordship's time in order to discuss the last objective with which he entrusted me.

Awaiting his convenience,

Leandra Grey

Thane of Eastmarch, Head of Diplomatic Affairs


	22. Chapter 22

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this chapter.

-L-

"You do have the right to drop in," Ulfric said without ceremony when I presented myself at the Palace of the Kings. "Now, what's this about?" He held up the note I'd sent to Jorleif via Svana and ignoring the brief obeisance I offered him.

I noticed that Galmar was not present for this interview, and wasn't sure what—if anything—to make of this.

"I discovered that I needed to ask you a few questions of the sort that should not fall into the hands of couriers," I answered. "And, perhaps, they may seem…" I twirled my fingers.

Ulfric, who seemed to be in in a somewhat surly mood, scowled. "Spit it out."

I produced a folded piece of paper, liberated the nearest quill and ink pot and set the paper down on the strategy table. "I wondered if you had considered candidates for the Jarls of those Holds we take. And whether or not they are aware that such an elevation in status is awaiting them."

Ulfric was silent for some moments. "You wanted to give Riften to that Black-Briar woman."

"As an incentive to, at the very least, not impede things. She can make life difficult." I don't like the idea, but I imagine I'll do and arrange a great many things I don't like. It seems part of the nature of my business.

"And move Laila to Falkreath."

"My lord has a good memory."

He glared at me, as if accusing me of pandering to his mood. Well, if he's too belligerent for courtesy, then fine. Have it his way.

"Am I empowered to offer Thaneship or the promise for retaining thereof once regimes change?" I asked.

Ulfric thought about this. "I trust you'll be judicious?"

"Extremely. These are people we'll have to deal with later."

"Very well."

"To whom do you plan to give Whiterun? One of the Grey-Mane clan, no doubt, but did you have one in mind?"

"Fellow named Vignar. Knew him in the war—he's a strong sort. Assuming, of course, that Balgruuf won't listen to reason. I take it you're working on that."

It was a request for an update, and I suspected he wanted a real one. However, as he had the salient points and those hadn't changed, I played stupid and ignored the hint. "Most certainly. And about Balgruuf—assuming he doesn't see reason—what had you planned to do with him once his city was taken?"

"Assuming he didn't die defending it?" Ulfric asked darkly.

"My lord, permit me to point out that Balgruuf is closely associated with the Dragonborn and she has yet to pick a side. It might be better if Balgruuf can be kept alive, if at all possible."

Ulfric heaved a heavy sigh. "There is that, and I hadn't forgotten it. Since we're on the subject." He waved one hand as if to say 'weigh in.'

I considered the matter. It is, after all, something I need to be sure of. A plan doesn't stop when the end is reached: the fallout must also be handled, preferably by the one with the initial plan. "He should be kept here—house arrest, or something very like it. If she doesn't take a side she can hardly fault the world for continuing on with an issue in which she has no interest—"

"She should," Ulfric grunted. "But after her larger, scalier problem has resolved itself. One war at a time, I suppose."

That's best. Smart people don't fight a war on two fronts. "But she would certainly appreciate our delicacy in remembering her hand is over Balgruuf's shoulder. This requires more thought, but I will certainly make sure that the safety of his person is given serious consideration."

Ulfric nodded, and I wondered what had upset him so much. I knew better than to ask, however.

"And, if my lord is willing, perhaps you might enlighten me as to the other candidates?"

Ulfric frowned. "Thongvar Silver-Blood in Markarth in return for his support. Siddgeir's uncle in Falkreath—Dengeir. He was Jarl before the Imperials forced him out."

I nodded to this, not arguing about Laila. I asked a specific question and Ulfric was answering it succinctly.

"Morthal… hmph. Does _anyone_ think about Morthal?" he asked, more of himself than of me. "Well, you probably will." He gestured to indicate this was a legitimate objective and not merely a joke or idle remark. "And Solitude…" he regarded me thoughtfully. "We'll see."

Morthal is unimportant, but it would be ridiculous to give it as little thought as Ulfric. Things slip through the cracks that way and then come back up to bite one when one least expects it. "Yes, my lord," I agreed. It would be politic to leave Elisif where she is for a variety of reasons. But Solitude is far enough in advance of where we are now that I don't think I need to worry about Elisif just yet.

But for the moment I had the answer I needed: Vignar Grey-Mane, and he was aware what would reward his support. "I already have ties to House Grey-Mane. I shall speak to Vignar and give the matter of Balgruuf's safety some consideration."

His safety means putting a knife to his throat before he can enter combat himself. That means being inside the city when the siege starts—because, of course, it's my job to imagine Balgruuf won't ally with Ulfric. I wonder… what would it take to turn him against the Legion and their Thalmor handlers? It might be easier to push him in the right direction by guile… but how would that even work?

It's something to consider.

"I take it you've made no progress?"

I blinked, looking away from my page of notes. "I have made some progress, my lord. But until I confer with Vignar, who is far more knowledgeable than I, I would prefer not to make any too-concrete plans."

"Very well. Was there anything else?"

"Not as yet, my lord. Thank you for your time." With that, I folded up my paper, tucked it into an inner pocket, bowed again and withdrew, shutting the strategy room's door behind me.

-L-

The biggest weakness I could find about Balgruuf was his children—they were all he had of his wife. An heir and a couple of spares. Balgruuf wouldn't respond to threats of personal danger, but if a threat were made against his children… that might motivate him.

I won't lie: the idea of involving the children at all bothered me. However, I comforted myself that firstly they weren't involved yet and secondly if I was going to use them I would be confident that my gamble would pay off.

To ensure I felt entirely confident in whatever scheme I came up with, I would have to be there, hand on the knife, knife to the throat. It was reassuring to know I wasn't such a monster that I could behave ruthlessly where the innocent were concerned. And when I say 'innocent' I mean 'young children,' not 'noncombatants.' Casualties among the latter are unavoidable.

This meant I would have to be inside Whiterun when the siege started, would have to be inside Dragonsreach before Balgruuf left it. I would need to incapacitate the children somehow; I would need to be able to get them out of Whiterun and put them somewhere safe—somewhere separate from their father, certainly. Only in that way could his continual cooperation be leveraged. That meant periodic proof of life from them—they're old enough to read and write, so that should be enough. Open communication.

But I'd need a place to put them, somewhere well out of reach of Balgruuf and, I think, Ulfric and Galmar. I don't think Ulfric or even Galmar capable of any extremes where children are concerned but I do think that they aren't above trying to put additional conditions on an arrangement when they have the high ground from which to do so.

I closed my eyes and then sipped the warm, honeyed wine Svana had quietly brought and left on the corner of my desk. I'd need additional hands to manage the children, even if they're incapacitated—but whatever I use must be gentle. And where to put them?

It's a good thing that we're still coming out of the winter season. Since Ulfric didn't tell me to be quick about this I assume that I can safely give this thought and take my time over it.

I'll consult Nurelion about sedatives.

-L-

"So this is where you set up shop," Avulstein, followed by Thorald, grinned. "Kind of macabre, isn't it?"

"It's been purified and I'm not afraid of ghosts," I answered almost cheerfully. I'd been giving thought as to how to influence public opinion in hostile cities and had come to the conclusion that there was an easy way—or at least easy in theory—to do it; to be honest, it was the unwashed Rolff who inspired me.

The mind is soft when hazed with alcohol. And stories can be carefully seeded by clever mouths, stories which can be repeated without the one speaking it necessarily remembering where he or she heard it or from whom he or she first heard it. Normal rumors start in this fashion, since taverns and inns are places for the exchange of gossip. All I need are a few people here and there with specific stories to circulate and to do so discretely.

Enough gossip can assail even the most flawless of reputations.

Three days after returning from Whiterun, I'd invited the lads over for one group meal before deploying four of the five of them—because it doesn't make sense to put all of them out of reach in case I need someone to respond quickly to something. It was my plan to rotate them in and out of the field to rest and reorganize, but with the understanding that this rest might be interrupted if their services were required.

In the end, I'd put their names in a basket and drawn one out. Ralof and his unit were staying. The rest were either on patrol or responding to reports of trouble which had begun to trickle in from several sources, beginning with Jorleif to whom pleas for help from the establishment went and winding down to the whispers coming up from the beggars in Windhelm.

Granted, their gossip was of a different kind of problem than Jorleif's, but they were useful tidbits in their own way.

Like the fact that something funny was happening down at the docks—and they didn't mean the Argonian Assemblage. There was little information about it, but since it was a small matter I was content to let it go for the time being. That didn't mean I hadn't written it down for later.

I had to admit, my beggars' web was doing well: they'd already begun approaching Svana for charity—and whispering their tales to her. The structure had changed somewhat from the initial arrangement with Silda: the charity paid for the whisper, but most people didn't know the 'charity' was more in line with a business transaction. This meant that I would soon acquire the reputation of a philanthropist.

I liked this arrangement, not the least because it offered a sop of pride to those dependent on charity: they were providing a service, an exchange since I valued information in return for the coin they understandably valued.

Svana bustled about, taking garments and politely insisting that muddy boots be left on the mats before the door. I didn't miss that Thorald seemed quite enchanted by the girl. I wanted to chuckle at this, but didn't.

Geirlund, Vidrald, and Ralof trickled in over the next twenty minutes.

"So this is it," Geirlund grunted, frowning at the plate before him. "We're really breaking up."

Thorald snorted, earning a glare from Geirlund.

"Not so very much," I put in. "We're just not going to see one another every day. I will miss that."

It was Ralof who saved the situation from becoming grim. "You won't miss the mammoth cheese, though."

I choked on a laugh, putting my face in one hand as the others chuckled appreciatively. "No, I won't miss that at all—though I do feel bad leaving you to deal with it by yourselves."

"Face it: we're just tougher than you are," Geirlund observed.

"Exposure results in increased tolerance," Vidrald announced, his expression of mock archness spoiled by his stifled grin.

Be that as it may, I'm still not eating that rubbish. "That explains a great deal. Ah, well. I shall remain undersized and under-adapted for our beloved Province."

Svana caused a brief distraction to the teasing and support of the patriotic sentiment (I think most of them hadn't given up hope that I'd sign on for the Cause rather than my vendetta if I worked with it long enough) that followed by ladling a rich hoarker soup into the bowls before us. She'd been working hammer and tongs all day to ensure that the meal did the household credit.

And to her particular credit, she had to chivvy me out of the kitchen to get me to stop eyeing the dessert too attentively. That she felt comfortable enough in her position to order me out of _her_ kitchen was good for me to see. As was the fruit mix beneath a sweetroll-like crust, which promised to be served with heavy, sweetened cream.

But the rest of the meal, first. And, returning to 'the Cause'… I won't lie. I would prefer to see my lads survive the war, even if I don't care much about Causes or movements. If Hammerfell could successfully secede, Skyrim can do it.

-L-

Dinner ran late. I felt a bit guilty keeping Thorald, Avulstein, Vidrald and Geirlund from their rest when they had an early morning, but the jovial atmosphere from which they departed when an early morning menaced them a little too much softened that guilt.

Ralof, however, stayed to continue the conversation about the dragon menace. "They're just like any other predator," Ralof continued, frowning. "If they learn not to harass settlements and burn cities, I've no problem with their continuing existence."

"Arguably they have near-human intelligence. Therefore, they already know better than to attack established settlements. All I see is a potential for blackmail: tribute or I wipe you all out in a firestorm."

"Or ice-storm. I was a little surprised about that," Ralof noted.

"Or ice-storm," I agreed, trying to imagine a village frozen in a flash, everything rendered still and icy in one horrible moment. Or a series of horrible moments. "No. I think that we need more effective ways to fight them. If they learn to accept your philosophy—live and let live—then very well. Regardless, I would employ whatever 'more effective means' are until they get the message—either back off or die out. I wouldn't call them natural if they're only just now coming back after…how many centuries of extinction?"

"Better means could only be an improvement," Ralof said heavily. "I've seen one of those horrors—two of those horrors—up close and could live without doing so again."

"Agreed."

Conversation petered out into a comfortable silence which was eventually broken by Svana. "My lady? It's getting very late."

"How late?" I asked, shaking myself out of quiet easement.

"After midnight."

Which could only mean the poor girl was exhausted.

"I'm so sorry, Svana, that was terribly rude of me." And Ralof looked uncomfortable, as if inconveniencing the girl bothered him. "In future, please don't wait up on me when things run so late. I'll manage breakfast on my own if you need a lie-in."

Svana gave a shallow curtsey and retreated upstairs.

"She's a nice girl," Ralof observed, watching her depart.

"She is," I agreed, getting to my feet. "I didn't mean to keep you up so late, either."

"I enjoy your company."

I found myself having difficulty looking at him. The candor in those four words made me want to scream that good men should stay away from someone like me. For their own safety. And yet…

I successfully shoved some of Marcus' last cutting words aside before I felt the full sting of them.

In Solitude I was considered a woman of consequence, and one well provided with regards to a dowry. This in mind, I could have had my pick from more than half the eligible gentlemen in Hjaalmarch. But the expectations on such a girl are higher than those of lesser social standing. A bride-price wasn't the only thing I would be expected to bring to the marriage and, make no mistake, my marriage would be my choice but it would also benefit business in some way or another. Love matches in Skyrim are rare, or so it seems to me. More often it's a match relying on the ability to tolerate one's spouse, since long courtships aren't the custom.

In some places in the world, it's 'first comes love, then comes marriage.' In Skyrim it's very much the other way around.

All of this rumination took place in mere seconds, for Ralof's large, warm hand slipped around one of mine and squeezed gently. "Goodnight, Leandra."

I looked up to find his expression as pleasant as it always was, as if he looked past the things I disliked about myself to see something worth looking at. It hurt, as it always did. Despite telling myself, yet again, that it would only end badly, because he would eventually realize for himself what kind of person I am and realize that he couldn't bear to touch me—let alone permit me to touch him…

…

The whole tangle left me feeling cold, tired, lonely and very unbalanced. Suddenly, I felt exhausted, numb… maybe even a little lost while aware of the problems I was or would be chipping away at. I couldn't blame it on the liquor consumed with dinner.

…and I had to wonder if maybe there was something to the hurtful words Marcus' vomited up at me. Maybe he was right. It's not what I'm fit for, it's not all I'm fit for… but from the position I'd held in Solitude, from the values I'd grown up with…

…what I was about to do was extremely whorish.

I didn't think I could handle the rest of the night alone with all the turmoil in my mind. It wouldn't be good for me. It seemed nothing I did with the rest of the night would be good for me, one way or another. I had to swallow down the lump that had formed in my throat as I turned to follow the path he'd taken.

When I was close enough, I called, "Wait."

When he did so and before he could turn around, I slipped my arms about his waist and rested my forehead between his shoulder blades, aware that I was shaking. There was no way he couldn't feel it, and I hated that petty self-betrayal.

"Don't go."

It sounded ridiculous, but not enough to annoy me and snap me out of this pathetic state into which I'd fallen. But he was arm and solid, and comfortable in my arms. I squeezed my eyes shut to quell the stinging in them. I had no idea how people went about arranging things like this. In the household I grew up in, such things simply weren't discussed. I mean, Lucinda and I got the basics as well as recipes for potions to encourage or discourage pregnancy, but apart from that…

Damn. I really have sunk to a pathetic level. And it still wasn't pathetic enough to annoy me so I could lever myself into a better frame of mind. That told me something, and that that something was too hard for me to accept on a normal day, let alone today.

Ralof laced his fingers through mine, a snug pressure, before bringing them to his lips. "Are you sure?"

I had to squeeze my eyes tighter to stop the stinging. His tone said he neither expected such a thing, nor had he stayed late in hopes of it. In fact, I had the distinct impression I could say 'no, I've changed my mind' and he wouldn't think less of me for it… or give up on me. The kindness in the sentiment burned like molten lead… and reinforced in my own mind that this really was something I wanted, even if I knew that sooner or later it would end badly for me.

"Quite certain," I answered, tone lower than usual.

Ralof let my hands go and turned around, shadows of doubt still clinging to his face but not entirely obscuring the expression of want behind them. "Because you don't look it."

This time my blush was for a wholly different reason and a spark of annoyance with myself accompanied it. "I've never asked a gentleman to stay the night," I mumbled, blushing all the harder. "You know how I am about things I've never done before when I don't feel confident doing them."

…maybe not the best choice of words…

But Ralof chuckled. When I looked up, I found him biting his lower lip, his expression scrunched in the way that showed he was trying not to laugh.

I found my own mouth twisting with wry humor. "Oh, go on," I grumbled, sighing heavily and wishing my face would stop burning.

He shook his head, wiping most of the grin off his face.

I took his hand as he'd taken mine, lacing our fingers together. "Please stay."

The kiss I shyly placed upon his lips closed the matter for discussion.

-L-

I woke a few hours later, earlier than I would normally get up. I sat up after disentangling myself from Ralof's rather tenacious one-armed hold on me and studied him in the near-darkness.

As it turned out, I wasn't the only one who seemed unpracticed and a little abashed because of it. It might have been this that allowed me to get so lost that everything I'd felt closing around me was for a time easy to ignore. At the very least, I woke without regrets, which is something.

Regret was something for the future—possibly the near future—and as always I wouldn't blame him when that future became the present.

Meanwhile, it was getting on towards dawn.

For a moment I sat there, wondering what was better: to stay until it was time to get up… or to absent myself so he could prepare to leave without any awkwardness.

"Going somewhere?" Ralof asked, nearly scaring me out of my skin, before sitting up himself.

"…" I really didn't know how to answer that without misunderstanding. My issues were all with myself, but it would be too easy for it to sound like or appear to be something about him.

Ralof sighed, as if he could read the silence, then took my hands in his. "I would never do that to you," he said softly, his grip tightening, "just sneak off while you were still asleep, like you didn't matter."

Sleep and rest had replenished my mental fortitude, so I wasn't nearly as troubled as I was last night. As mucha s I appreciated the sentiment, I bypassed my own thoughts on that subject. "…will I see you again?"

Ralof smiled at me, then kissed my forehead. "Do you want to?"

And once again, he allowed me to be the one making decisions. Just as he had last night. Just as he always had, once his interest in me came out. "Yes." If given my own way—and I wasn't going to make future plans using _that_ criteria—well… he was in Windhelm for the week. I wasn't sure when my next trip away would be, but between now and then I'd be glad of whatever attention could be spared.

This earned me a kiss on the cheek, and a gentle caress of my shoulder.

"When?" And there was a tone of teasing in his voice that made me half smile.

"My door is always open to you," I answered, sidling closer to him. "Promise me something," I whispered in his ear.

"…maybe."

I did chuckle at that and kissed him behind his jaw. "When you get tired of me… just tell me. I'll understand." It was hard to say, but wholly necessary.

Ralof sighed at this, running his hand up and down the length of my spine for a few moments. From the way he pulled me closer, I think he understood that there was something on my side, some deep trouble he didn't know about, that prompted the request. To my relief, he didn't make me any promises to be broken in future or worse—which could become chains. "I'll bear that in mind."

Svana tapped on my door at the usual time, somewhat to my surprise. "My lady? Breakfast is ready."

"We'll be two for breakfast, Svana," I announced simply.

I swear I heard that girl giggle on the other side of the door.


	23. Chapter 23

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

I regarded the two Companions who had returned from Mzinchaleft triumphant with Grimsever in their possession. It was exactly the sort of blade I would have expected for someone like Mjoll. The pitted glass showed it had seen much use, and the heft made it a formidable weapon at worst. I could see why she might think losing it was a sign to change her life's ambitions: it was truly a masterwork and I would have congratulated the smith who made it on the spot if I could have.

"I take it things went smoothly? No injuries?" I asked.

"Pfft," the little Breton snorted, crossing her arms which drew attention to her chest—but the gesture was so unaffected that I was sure she didn't know this. Then, enthusiastically, "It was _great_ —I'd never seen one of those things before. And the way it crumpled when Farkas hit it—that was _amazing_. Or the thing that flipped. Farkas hit it so hard and in just the right way that it _flipped_ before going 'crunch!'"

From the ways he patted the axe at her side, I assume she was responsible for the actual crunching.

'Farkas' grinned wolfishly at this then, as if on balance. "Could have done without those weird bug-things, though."

"Those _were_ kinda nasty—and not just because they were gross. Orzi would have hated them too, but I don't think he'd have been _quite_ as effective with them," the girl nodded in decisive agreement. "So, sword delivered. We'll be out of your hair in no time."

Both Companions gave me their undivided attention: great fight for great reward, and didn't they appreciate both of those things?

I found their simplicity refreshing as I produced the gold I'd set aside for them. They didn't linger, though the girl's chatter indicated for anyone with ears that she was headed for the tavern… and her comrade seemed content to follow suit.

They still looked mismatched.

I considered Grimsever for a few moments then carried it up to my room so I could consult the letters I'd received—for I archived my mail in case I needed it again. Maven and Aerin both wrote me on the first of the month. It was now the seventh, and it would take one day and part of a second to get to Riften from Windhelm.

I would be present in time to pay the authorities to release Mjoll rather than pay Madame Black-Briar for her indulgence. It would take a few days for Mjoll and Aerin to pack up and arrive in Windhelm, though I needn't oversee this.

My concern now was how to contrive Mjoll running into Rolff in one of his more charming moments. I'm sure I can come up with something. I wasn't joking when I said I'd probably spend time apologizing to Ulfric for 'civil disturbances.'

-L-

"I don't know how you managed this," Aerin breathed as he and I—accompanied by a guard—headed into the Mistveil Keep dungeons. "I'm not sure I want to know… I'm just glad you did."

"So am I. Look at this—lodged like the worst of common criminals," I sniffed.

Mjoll had been in as close to solitary confinement as is possible to be without actually putting her in solitary.

The Mistveil Keep dungeons were as unpleasant as most places of confinement. The dreary upkeep either made it seem worse than it was… or better than it was. A lot of filth and grime could be hidden by those few flickering torches.

"Mjoll the Lioness," the guard announced, unlocking her cell. "You've been redeemed and are free to go."

Mjoll, already on her feet from having heard steps approaching her cell, gave the guard a proud and mildly defiant look before giving her attention to those who had purchased her liberty. "Leandra," she blinked.

I smiled at her. "Back again," I agreed.

"How is Svana?" Mjoll asked, stepping out of the cell and managing without much effort to give the impression of towering over the guard who quickly departed under her austere look.

"Oh very well. And I'm quite happy with her. She makes an apple tart that will haunt your dreams after one bite. In the best possible way, of course." And it does, too.

Mjoll's manner softened as she led the way out of the prison and into the bright Riften sunlight. I'll admit I found Riften to be a bit warm after Windhelm, to which I think I was growing accustomed. Weather-wise at least.

"I do have something for you," I announced, once we were back at the house she and Aerin shared. With this, I fetched Grimsever. I didn't think I would be allowed to bring it into the prison, but I didn't want to leave it out and about, either. Not that I expected Maven to send a thug to ransack the house, since that would be counterproductive for her, but my personal paranoia said not to leave important artifacts like that where just anyone could happen on them.

Mjoll's face went slack when I reappeared, struggling to hold Grimsever without cutting myself while trying to unwrap the cloth around it. She opened and closed her mouth several times as she took it from me, whipping its wraps the rest of the way aside. For along moment she simply stared at the weapon, then she looked up at me. "I don't like leaving Riften," she said softly, her knuckles blanching around the hilt of the sword. "But I didn't believe this could be found." Then, in as much stronger, more businesslike voice, "I'll follow you. Wherever you go, I'll go."

"Then we'll go together and hopefully effect some good along the way," I answered as naturally as I could. "So, Hjerim in Windhelm. Take your time to settle affairs here."

-L-

Mjoll's expression as she regarded Riften while shadowing me spoke of her inner turmoil. She had promised to reclaim Riften from Madame Black-Briar's clutches, but hadn't made much headway. And, from what I could tell, the locals were more willing for Mjoll to leave than for her to run further afoul of Maven. It said something about the average citizen in this town—that they were of a higher quality than the 'people of quality' were.

Truthfully, I was killing time before leaving in the morning. I still wasn't sure if Mjoll would accompany me or go with Aerin and frankly I didn't care one way or the other. Aerin and I were capable of looking after ourselves while travelling, but Aerin would be traveling with goods. Thus, I think I would prefer she stay with him.

I turned over Madesi's latest offerings, considering a ring with a murky green stone. It wasn't a pretty piece of jewelry, and hardly up to his usual standard.

"Ah, that one," Madesi sighed after the fashion of Argonians of his kind: a serpentine flicker of the tongue, a flicker of filmy secondary eyelids. "It wasn't what was promised, but by the time I was able to shake free to speak to the dealer…" he shrugged, shaking his head. "Well, now I know." But the sourness was impossible to conceal. I knew he was only telling me because we'd done so much business over the years.

"What was it supposed to do?" I asked, slipping it on. Like any good enchanted ring, it shrunk to fit my finger, and came off easily when tugged, the band expanding again so as to accommodate the next wearer.

"It's supposed to detect poison. Supposedly came out of an offshoot of Chorrol's ruling family."

I put it back on, admiring the sheer ugliness of it. "You tried it, I assume?"

"I did. But you know what it's like trying to talk to Wylandria." Madesi shook his head, then tapped his temple.

A yelp caught my attention. Turning sharply I found Mjoll with a fellow by the scruff of the neck. He was older than I with a patch of beard and brown hair tied back at his neck. Despite his rumpled look, I imagine there are those who would call him handsome… but I'm not one of them.

"Let me go you… you… ack!" he choked again, thereby losing his insult, when Mjoll adjusted her grip on his collar.

"What are you up to, Marcurio?" she demanded dryly.

"About three inches above his normal height," I said, noting how he stood on tiptoe to avoid the strangling hem of his collar.

"I see you have a wonderful sense of humor, my lady—"

Mjoll, her lips still pursed lowered him so he could stand properly. "You don't stalk people for no good reason, mage."

"Stalking indeed?" I asked, my guts tightening.

"I was not _stalking_!" the mage snapped, wrenching himself from Mjoll's grip in order to resettle his disarranged robes. "I was merely wondering how to approach such a lovely and… er… well-guarded lady." He gave Mjoll an arch look that had absolutely no effect on her.

"Who is he, Mjoll? I don't think I know him." I think I'd recognize such a chatterbox… and someone who seemed to have such a high opinion of himself… or who indulged in such pointless flattery.

Huh. I suppose that renders him an idiot and I tend not to remember them. There seem to be so many.

The mage cut across her—literally by stepping ahead of her and figuratively by interjecting on his own behalf. "I, Madame, am Marcurio—master of the arcane." He cut a courtly bow which was not devoid of a cultured air. "And I merely wished to save you from such… dubious help."

"Don't be coy, rascal," Mjoll frowned—but it was a frown of forced patience.

Marcurio's lip curled, but he otherwise ignored her. " _Surely_ you're aware this woman has been in _prison_?" he asked in a theatrical sort of undertone.

Mjoll's skin took on a flush that was not of embarrassment… and if Marcurio thought it was bad having her grab his collar I think he'll find it even less agreeable if she grabs him by his neck. I didn't know there was anyone who could really get under Mjoll's skin.

"However, for a modest sum, I shall bring my very formidable arcane powers to bear against your foes. Why," he continued in the tone of a statesman, "content yourself with the kind of brute force that's a half-septim a dozen out here when you could have… me." He made a 'here I am, and what a picture I am, too!' gesture.

I snorted at this, covering my mouth to try to stifle the sound.

Marcurio gave me a sour look. "I assure you, the only thing better than a powerful mage at your side is… well, nothing really."

"I can pitch him into the canal if he's annoying you, my Thane," Mjoll noted delicately and not unhopefully.

Marcurio's eyes arched, and he seemed to resist glancing at Mjoll to see if she was joking—but only because 'thane' was better than he expected.

I took Madesi's ring and regarded it. Now, I can ask about this to ensure I'm really speaking to a proper mage and not come charlatan. However, if the ring turns out not to be a dud, Madesi won't scruple to inflate the price. "I'll take it, Madesi." At worst, Wuunferth might be able to do something. A poison detection spell might not be unwise. I paid him, then held it out to Marcurio. "Tell me, friend, about this," I commanded.

Marcurio looked at me as if he found a trial to be… beneath him. However, caught between that and being dumped in the canals by Mjoll (and I think she was just threatening for the amusement of it), the trial was the safer route.

He took the ring, cheekily trying to catch my hand with it but failing. He turned the ring about this way and that way, the ridiculousness of his personality falling away as he bent his attention on it. He continued turning it about to examine it from all angles, murmured to it several times and listened as if it would speak back. Then, to all our surprises, he gently touched the tip of his tongue to the stone. "Detect poison, but the spell had aged sufficiently to begin to break down," he announced, handing it back to me. "The stone should turn pale in the presence of toxins—the paler, the more dangerous. This is quite a fine piece of work, even if the spell inside requires a little care. They don't make them like this anymore and never in Skyrim."

"Could you repair the spell?"

"…perhaps."

"And the price of your hire?"

Marcurio considered this, and I had to wonder if he was elevating his price or lowering it in hopes of employment.

Regardless, I had his number: he's here because this was where he washed up—so to speak. He's hungry, not necessarily so very talented and, for whatever reason, he's not with the College. That's always something to ask about, views of magicka being what they are in Skyrim.

"Five hundred septims," Marcurio finally declared. "And it's a bargain."

"Five _hundred_ septims?" Mjoll demanded, looking appalled.

"You pay for what you get," Marcurio answered snobbishly.

"And to repair my ring? Bear in mind," I added quickly, "that I have a court mage as a friend. I am merely interested in having this repaired as a convenience of being here with someone able to do it."

This flattened Marcurio's hopeful aspect somewhat. "Two hundred and fifty septims. That includes cost of materials," he answered grudgingly. "What's your life worth to you?"

I smiled at the question, which suggested he'd come to the conclusion I was someone who worried about poison. "Two hundred and fifty septims, then. Fix this for me, then we'll talk."

For his eagerness to be hired on had reminded me of one of my somewhat older ideas that correlated to one of my newer plans. I need information and I need people in secure places… and Marcurio can be bought. The only question is whether he can be bought back once I've bought him—so to speak.

But if Madame Black-Briar is in power, I want someone close to Laila's court.

The trick is making sure our names aren't connected, or are so weakly connected that no one pays any mind to them.

Marcurio took the ring and slid it onto his finger for safekeeping before cutting a bow that wasn't devoid of irony. "It will take three days."

So much for my going right back to Windhelm… unless I pay the price of his hire, get him out of the city, we have our chat then send him back as if I felt him to be substandard to my requirements. That's expensive…

…but building relationships is expensive. I remember Marcus passing down tales to Lucinda and I about the early days of Box of Wonders. I certainly know that a great many septims change hands while travelling, particularly in places where gossip occurs and news is exchanged. "Reasonable."

"Here, you." The hail came from a thuggish, coarse voice that did nothing to intimidate me.

Oh for crying out loud…

I turned to find Mjoll standing between Maul and I. He seemed disinclined to crowd her, and when he tried to sidestep her she moved with him. "Don't be stupid," Mjoll growled. She's never liked Maul, and he knows not to push her too far. The look he gave her though, that indicated he wasn't worried about her anymore. That told me he was specifically on Madame Black-Briar's business and felt Mjoll's stint in prison was a sign of things to come.

"Maven wants to see you. Now," Maul said simply, addressing me over Mjoll's shoulder.

I considered this. Most people would have sent a house servant, not someone who looked like he might carry you there if you refused to go. "I'm conducting business. I'll meet with Madame as soon as I've concluded it."

"Maven said _now_ ," Maul responded.

"And she knows to expect 'at first opportunity,'" I answered without heat. "I won't fail to see her before suppertime." With that, I turned to count out half the money for Marcurio. "You may have the other half upon completion of the task." One never pays full price up front with a new contact. "I look forward to our next meeting."

Regardless of whether it was only half the required price, he seemed happy enough with the arrangement.

I wonder what it would take to put him in Laila's court—later Maven's, if all goes well—and to keep him there and in my service. He's a local, someone who's known. We'll have to see what happens. Maybe my three days in Riften won't be devoid of purpose.

"Oh, Marcurio, one more thing," I called.

"My lady?" he arched his eyebrows.

"Why are you not with the College?"

The question hit him out of the blue, as I intended it to. He turned a blotchy red and looked mutinous. "Magicka must _never_ submit to tyranny." And that was it. No more, no less. He turned on his heel in a swirl of robes and set off, stiff with dignity.

Fair enough.

-L-

I regarded Madame Black-Briar with a bland expression but inwardly with a great sense of dislike. She hadn't improved since the last time I saw her and seeing her in her own little pocket of Oblivion (so to speak) didn't make her any more palatable.

She regarded me with that hard expression which, with her, is the sum of her inward and outward appearance.

The household spoke of her heavy hand. While Svana was bright and cheerful, it was clear that the servants here were only here for lack of better situations, and one could hardly count on letters of recommendation from Madame Back-Briar if one left her service—willingly or otherwise. She was too proud and too hard to make someone else's life easier in any way.

I was doubly obliged to be disapproving towards her—she hadn't sent a house servant to solicit a meeting from me. She'd sent Maul to command me to appear. Mjoll, who had been shadowing me faithfully since Aerin assured her she wouldn't be able to do much with regards to getting ready to leave, waited in the hallway outside of Madame's office. She hadn't liked the separation, but this was business and she understood business.

"I've considered what we spoke of last time," Madame said, pouring herself a crystal goblet of amber liquor. "And I think it's ridiculous. You may tell your… employer… so."

I found myself smiling. While I had planned on her accepting the arrangement, her changing of her mind at this point wasn't surprising, per se. She had to know I had plans for the Thieves Guild, that I needed to be able to operate unhindered in Riften, and that I'd 'counted' on working comfortably around her to facilitate both those needs.

What she didn't realize is that a good general prepares for victory, defeat… and has an alternate plan.

"Very well. I could hardly force you into a position you don't like."

She smiled grimly in agreement, as though glad I'd caught on so quickly.

"So how about this as what you get out of our original agreement? No government seizures when the Stormcloaks secure the eastern half of the Province." Because one word from me and Madame will be sweeping streets for a pittance and no one here—with the possible exception of Jarl Laila—will say anything but 'yay!' Such a reduction in circumstances, prison, maybe exile makes blackmail and extortion difficult.

Madame's expression didn't change. She merely sipped her drink. The rumors that she's in bed with the Dark Brotherhood are just rumors, and I'm a careful woman. As far as she knows, we've both got knives pointed at one another's throats.

"Because it's a well-known fact that you're an Imperial supporter and it's impossible to tell how… ardent… a supporter you are. You understand, of course, that such a person couldn't possibly be allowed to remain unchecked and as His Lordship comes out of Windhelm I don't think he'll much care of your name is Black-Briar or Blackthorn."

Blackthorn being a disgraced merchant house in Anvil, an object lesson of Marcus' about why one should _never_ play very risky ventures.

Madame's expression went from impassive to fixed. Well she might: she's been so upper crust for so long that the idea of being reduced even to mid-tier working class—or worse—would be unappealing.

But she was already in bed with me, so to speak, after our last conversation. "I can keep you Madame Black-Briar of Riften," I said softly. "And I will. But you will honor our original agreement… and I'm sure you'll go above and beyond your promise as a gesture of goodwill."

I wanted to laugh. I'd hated negotiating with Madame when I was a merchant. Now, though… blackmail (and this is only on the fringes) works only if the subject is more afraid of what happens if you talk than what happens if they stay silent. In this case, with her fortune and power at stake—and even then I'm sure she feels there's a fifty-fifty chance my threats will be stamped out by the Imperial Legion—she'll play along until she thinks she can turn the tables on me.

But her failure to do so when she had time to prepare and I supposedly came in cold will give her pause.

"I hope we won't have a conversation like this again, Madame. It's quite pointless."

"We'll see, won't we?"

"We will. You've proved that the future is in one's own hands. I trust in your wisdom on this matter." I inclined my head, turned, and slipped out of the room and then out of her dark and dreary house.

-L-

Jarl Laila Law-Giver was a lovely woman, sweet tempered to the point of being bland and utterly oblivious to the world outside Mistveil Keep… and possibly between the Keep and the Benevolence of Mara nearby which she visited once a week, and perhaps when moving between Madame's home and the Keep—Laila is a semi-frequent guest of Madame's.

I wish I could say she lived up to her name—Law-Giver. But my views on Riften are scarcely unique.

Laila was a vocal supporter of the Stormcloaks and Ulfric in particular—I sometimes think she's hoping for something to come from that support. Something warm, cozy, and (if she were anyone smarter) politically profitable.

Not for the first time I wondered why Ulfric wasn't at least married at his age. If he wants Eastmarch to stay in the family—particularly while he's at war and I don't doubt he'll be near the frontlines at least some of the time—he needs a family to pass it on to.

I shudder to think of Eastmarch in Galmar's hands, for instance. The man can barely run a footrace, let alone a Hold.

Well, there. I do him a significant injustice. Perhaps it's having Maul following Mjoll and I around giving us nasty looks every time he catches our eyes. Fortunately, Mjoll is a match for him and most people have trouble dealing with a dagger to the back. I'm not proud.

"My Jarl," I dipped a proper Imperial-style curtsey to her. "Leandra Grey. Permit me to pay my respects and offer you my lord Ulfric's warmest compliments."

Jarl Laila's eyebrows rose. "Of course, Madame Grey," she announced, indicating I should rise. "Are you an envoy, then?"

"Not precisely, merely a businesswoman who has the honor of bearing His Lordship's regards."

This is exactly what it sounds like: buttering Laila up for later. Now that I know I won't be moving her out of Riften, it doesn't hurt to do a little work to improve her good opinion of Ulfric. One never knows when it will come in handy… and balancing any complaints Madame might make against me against my bringing Ulfric's good wishes puts Laila in a position to want to mediate problems between Madame and myself for her own sake.

A report of unfavorable treatment supported by the Jarl would get back to Ulfric and since Madame is a known Imperial supporter…

Well. I do enjoy a tedious visit that has several benefits to be gathered.


	24. Chapter 24

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

Being invited to dine at Mistveil Keep with the usual frequenters was not difficult after having name dropped and been so modest about it, and from having some ability to sweet-talk others. Laila proved far easier to charm than I thought she would—then again, she likes hearing certain things and sometimes a new way of saying old things is just what's needed.

As it was in this case.

Whatever I thought about the woman personally, Laila's table was _far_ more pleasant than breakfast at Ulfric's. For one, Mistveil Keep is far more welcoming to visitors than that dreary Palace of the Kings. Again, I found myself thinking that it needed a feminine touch if basic 'inviting décor' was beyond the ken of the people running the Hold.

Madame did attend dinner, and while she looked as imperturbable as usual her movements were a bit stiff and her mouth a bit blanched as of the moment she recognized me. I had the distinct impression that she was there not to be seen but to watch me—or, rather, that became her aim once she realized I was a guest and not a supplicant. My presence did seem to be a nasty shock, if little tells are at all accurate.

I also think I was sitting in Madame's seat, since she kept looking from Laila to me from her position farther away from the Jarl than I would have expected to find her.

"And you do what, exactly, in Jarl Ulfric's court?" Laila asked cheerfully, having cut up her fish in sauce so it could cool. Like a good hostess, she could clearly preside over a supper table so guests don't feel left out among people who know already one another fairly well.

"I'm a mere business woman who has had the good fortune to make my way in the world," I answered humbly.

A business woman whose itinerary the Jarl is aware of. Laila won't miss that. I might call her oblivious and a fool but that doesn't make her stupid… well, not stupid in all areas. I suppose everyone has blind spots, it's just that hers are bigger than one might consider wise or reasonable.

"What sort of business?" Anuriel, the steward asked. As the dinner was informal, she was permitted to sit with the company, and did so at the right hand of her Jarl (though the housecarl declined an intimation from Laila to sit at the table, preferring to stand behind Laila's chair).

Anuriel was a Bosmer with a shrewd look in her eyes that belied the pleasant smile stamped across her face. Her demeanor was smooth as butter… and I don't doubt just as slippery. I always supposed that the corruption ran to high levels if Laila could be so shockingly oblivious and I think I was right.

I had to give Anuriel credit if this was the case… though I don't know which side—if either—she's a partisan for.

I need to speak to someone who knows the court, or knows the dirty secrets therein. That means speaking to Brynjolf. It means speaking carefully, since once we're out of sight of respectable people (such as there are) Madame can lean on the Guild to find out what I've been asking. I'd need to ditch Mjoll for that visit for obvious reasons.

I need a tool in Riften. But I need to know more about the power structure first—more than what 'everyone' who isn't a resident knows. And I definitely need my own seekers of information. I hate the idea, but looking into the prisons of Windhelm—where my inquiries wouldn't be noticed (and willfully unnoticed at that)—might be a start. I don't like it, but one never knows what one might find.

"So, what sort of business are you in?" Laila continued, beginning to eat her fish.

I picked at my own, using my fork to move as much of the sauce off the fish as was possible—the cook was heavy-handed with the sauce and I'm not a fan of this particular dish. It was, however, well-executed and the recipe is rather finicky to begin with.

My compliments to the cook who managed it, heavy-handedness with sauce aside.

"I share in maintaining a trade network and have been known to obtain rare items on commission. In fact, several bottles of the Black-Briar family's Honeywine have passed through my hands recently."

Madame looked surprised and almost admiring—grudgingly, but it was there. They're supposed to be unobtainable.

I may need bandits or something unsavory to harass her shipping interests. That's risky for a variety of reasons. I have to be able to squeeze without my hand being detected—and I'm afraid my lads are a little too idealistic for something approaching banditry. Fortunately, I enjoy puzzles.

"And the war doesn't trouble you?" Anuriel asked.

"Oh, not at all! The bulk of the business outside the eastern part of the Province is handled by a dear friend of mine who is nonpartisan and such a nice girl that no one would think of interfering with her work even if she declared for one side or the other. Well, no one _savory_ ," I added.

"Then perhaps she should come here!" Laila chuckled as she sipped her wine. "I imagine she'd fit right in."

Like a square peg in a round hole.

Madame's mouth thinned, though whether at this flattery or out of concern I couldn't tell.

"She's been several times and agrees that it's a lovely Hold. Possibly the most welcoming of the Nine Holds—Markarth is just _dreary_ and I can't say the Palace of the Kings is much better," I responded, shaking my head and allowing my real feelings to suffuse the comment.

" _That's_ because it's a bachelor's household," one of the other women chuckled. "What can one expect?"

"A warm drink for any visitor who has to slog those wretched streets," someone else put in. "Give me Markarth—at least the water is all in the waterway."

"That's quite so," one of the other diners agreed hastily. "Speaking of Markarth, did you hear? Last month one of the Justicars was assassinated! Right there in the Keep!"

This was, of course, old news but everyone gasped and looked appalled.

I had to work not to laugh. "I'd heard a rumor—it's being attributed to the Stormcloaks, is it not?"

"I'm sure Jarl Ulfric would never stoop to such a pointless murder!" Laila said, looking scandalized.

Wouldn't he? Well, maybe _he_ wouldn't. But Laila's question and her scandalized look served as sudden inspiration. While I don't consider what I'm doing 'driving a wedge' between Laila and the pro-Empire Madame, it doesn't hurt to take advantage of a core characteristic of women like Laila: they feel threats to their perfect little world more strongly than most. "Then you think as I do, that it was a plot to discredit him or to justify some kind of reciprocity at a later date?"

The question was met with a soft gasp from many of the diners—the gasp of people savoring something particularly nasty, but knowing it can't get to them. However, unlike the overdone reaction to the old news being rehashed this also very overdone response from the diners carried an undercurrent of unease at the new thought.

"That's a rather devious sentiment for you, my dear," Madame noted calmly, setting her cup down and giving me her full attention. "Have you given this some thought, then?"

"No, merely considering my own experiences," I answered, injecting all the somber sadness I could into my tone. "You know how my poor sister was murdered."

Madame's jaw tightened which told me she was feeling unusually sensitive. To my surprise, I realized just how on the defensive I'd managed to put her if she was apparently wondering how others might take that little statement. Did I mean it innocently? Or was I trying to implicate her in the matter? What would others think of those few innocent little words, since they didn't know me the way she did… and was the way she knew me distorting her thoughts?

I hope so. It's unexpected… and possibly dangerous… but not lacking in usefulness in future, perhaps.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Laila said sweetly, and she looked it.

"Thank you, my Jarl. That's very kind of you. All Riften seems to share the sentiment—Madame especially." I lifted my glass as if in sad gratitude.

Madame manufactured a creditable smile. "Lucinda was a kind girl. I do miss dealing with her."

I'll bet. Better her than me, apparently.

"But do you really think that's possible? What Mistress Grey said about…" Laila asked Anuriel, trailing off as she began to worry her lower lip.

Maven's eyebrows contracted, since she's well acquainted with my former surname of Ashlynn. That will give her something else to chew on.

"I'm a woman of small understanding, my Jarl, when it comes to these horrible intrigues. It comes from living in Riften," Anuriel sighed. "But I imagine it's not above the scruples of some. Indeed, it's such a devious idea that it could be used and reused without anyone the wiser— _if_ the perpetrators were clever." She sipped her wine, taking in the reactions to the sentiment.

I pretended to be troubled about it, as though wishing I hadn't brought it up.

"I agree with Anuriel," Madame broke in mildly, "though, the case of Markarth strange since it implicates someone outside a Hold rather than an inmate, which might go unremarked. I imagine that's more usual."

My fork almost, _almost_ , stalled midair at her words. It was my turn to have to cover insecurity, wondering what she _meant_ by that statement. Unlike Anuriel, who seems content to talk to keep conversation flowing, Madame isn't so obliging. "Now that sounds like an idea to which _you've_ given some thought, Madame," I smiled. "Divines help us if it's true!"

The table, barring Madame herself (and the housecarl), laughed at this; gentle applause broke out. Although the sound was congratulatory and supportive of a shrewd businesswoman's cleverness, you wouldn't think so to look at the details of Madame's face. She is, after all, an Imperial supporter and it's known. With the ideas being seeded… well. Who knows how such things will grow?

I need someone here to collect gossip. And I being to think I have an idea who. I can't be seen in talks with him, though…

I mentally sighed. Great. I'm shelling out more coin for uncertain results and I'm beginning to feel the pinch in my purse. On the other hand… I have no ideas yet how to position him. So maybe I don't need to worry about that pinch just now.

"The Emperor's in Solitude, you know," someone further down the table noted.

I knew he was coming, I just didn't know when. Ugh, that's all we need. If the Thalmor were really clever, they could do it: assassinate the Empire and blame the Stormcloaks. It gives them a reason to fiddle more with the Empire's inner workings. I wondered about doing it the other way around, but discarded the idea. It would take a true professional to get past the Penitus Oculatus and as for motive… well. Skyrim is already embroiled in trouble. We don't need an assassinated Emperor…

…which means I'd better prepare for one, because it's my job to be prepared for anything. But I can't do much in or around Solitude. Haafingar is almost closed to me. I need someone _there_ more than I need someone here.

So I listened with half an ear to the enthusiasm of the conversation which was more about the wedding the Emperor was in Skyrim to attend than anything else. Madame was invited, and was quick to parade the fact. Laila was not so partisan that she didn't wish she could go—but the partisans in this war tend not to stray out of their own Holds or, if they do, they stay in friendly territory.

I need contacts, people who can apprise me of this sort of thing before I hear it as third-hand gossip. The thought made it hard not to look morose and introspective as supper moved to sticky, honey-based pastry dessert with cream and crystallized flowers. It was so sweet that made my teeth ache, and I was profoundly grateful that there was only a tiny serving of it—about the size of my palm.

Any more might make a guest vomit.

Dealing with the sweet became harder a moment later when Harrald called to the musician who had been quietly playing in the background. The song he wanted was predictable, and I think it was one of the few things Madame and I agreed on: enough was enough with _Age of Oppression_. We actually tripped over one another, before the last strain sounded, to call for another song. By name, in case the musician thought we meant 'we want a reprise.'

-L-

A little blonde thief of skinny figure with big golden eyes sat across from me, firmly ensconced at Brynjolf's shoulder as if she were some kind of accessory rather than an individual entity.

We were meeting in the Ragged Flagon on the day Marcurio returned my now-functional ring to me. That brief meeting had yielded an agreement: he would accompany me a ways away from Riften, we would talk about an arrangement much to his benefit, then he would go back to Riften either part of my plans or not. Either way, he would get two hundred fifty more septims off me. I didn't like the arrangement, but he wasn't someone I could just sit around chatting up in the Bee and Barb.

And the Ragged Flagon has too many ears.

And it would look suspicious for us to meet in the Halls of the Dead.

I felt certain Madame would keep an eye on me in one way or another—which meant keeping my voice down and my wording careful so the overly-large ears of Dirge (Maul's brother) wouldn't pick up anything they shouldn't.

"Kitty-lass," Brynjolf prompted, disappearing behind his flagon.

Kitty, the blonde girl I'd noted the day I staked out the Ragged Flagon to form my own opinions about the place, seemed to bounce in her chair. Her leathers were much lighter than those worn by Brynjolf, which gave the illusion that they were more pockets than protection. She was slight but not fragile: a good look would tell anyone that she was one of those people with a wiry kind of strength and the tenacity to use it.

"This is the town for dirt, except it's not really _dirt_ ," she noted wearily. "I mean, when everyone's sketchy what's the point of having standards for sketchiness?" she sighed, shaking her head, her fluffy blonde hair waving gently. "And it's not like you gave me much time to scrape stuff together, either. Fortunately, I live here." She proceeded to launch into a fairly bored recitation of who's who as far as the corrupt people in mid to high places were… and what vices I could exploit if I wanted to. And who was sleeping with whom. And who wanted to be.

I wasn't sure if she was really good at obtaining information or if this was common knowledge to the seedy underbelly of Riften. It didn't matter—Brynjolf nodded or snorted occasionally, his apparently unthinking nonverbal commentary punctuating her recital.

"—and Anuriel's the top of the muck heap, really. I mean, everyone's scared spitless of that Black-Briar woman so she doesn't count. Miserable old bat." Kitty huffed, almost pouting at whatever caused her bad opinion of the woman.

"Kitty-lass."

Kitty scrunched up her face at Brynjolf. "Well she _is_ and even Dirge agrees. Yo, Dirge!"

Her shout made me jump, but Bjynjolf seemed to have expected as much, however resigned he looked, like a man herding toddlers, something in the line of his mouth spoke of mild fondness.

"You're not gonna tell that Black-Briar witch I was mouthing off about her, are you?" Kitty demanded.

"..."

Kitty smiled at him. "Not even if I call her Maven _Bitch_ -Briar?"

"…"

"Or—"

"Hn."

"Thank you. See? We're all friends here and she _is_ a bitch," Kitty answered complacently, indicating that Dirge's 'hn' had been unconditional support. "She knows it. Probably is proud of it."

Dirge rolled his eyes, looking like a man who didn't quite know what to think… or why he went along with it.

This girl could be annoying if I had to deal with her for any real length of time. In small doses, I think she's well named and, like her namesake, rather adorable. But only in small doses.

"Anyway, sidestepping Madame Bitchy-Britches," with a pointed look at Brynjolf, who disappeared behind his flagon (I strongly suspect to hide a real smile), "Anuriel's the top of the muck heap. She has one love and one loyalty and it looks like _this_." With a flourish of fingers she produced a shiny septim, rolled it across her knuckles then made it disappear again with the disinterested ease of someone who mastered the trick about the same time she mastered walking. "You can buy her for anything but a night, if you know what I mean." She pushed back to balance her chair on two legs, one hand on the back of Brynjolf's in case she lost balance and needed to catch at something. "I think the only person here who isn't corrupt is Maramal at the Benevolence."

"I thought you stayed away from there," Brynjolf remarked, coming out from behind his flagon with an expression of surprise.

"...usually," Kitty answered shiftily.

Brynjolf's brows contracted, then his expression opened up. "Kitty-lass, you didn't…"

"…I didn't put it in the alms box," Kitty answered, beginning to squirm… and trying to stifle a manic kind of smile.

"I don't think I should hear much more of this," I said, trying not to laugh. "Thank you both—I look forward to working with you in future."

"You do?" Kitty blinked her golden-toned eyes in genuine surprise. "Well… great. See you then. Hey, Vekel!"

As I got up, the bartender came over with several small glasses—perhaps the equivalent of half a tankard in total—and set them on the table in front of Kitty. She took one and sipped it down, savoring the flavor. I could only suppose this was a practice from wherever she was from.

Or maybe she was just a lightweight and small cups were how she dealt with it.

-L-

Mjoll and I came ahead of Aerin, and reached Windhelm in good time. The city had grown slushier since I was there last, though Mjoll didn't seem to notice. She looked about, studying the place as if reconciling her memories of it—whatever they were—to what she saw now.

To my surprise, the guards saluted politely as I came in with murmurs recognizing me as one of Ulfric's thanes.

"It's wetter than it was last time I was here," Mjoll sighed as we padded past the smithy and up towards Hjerim.

And the slush all freezes again at night, which means mornings are treacherous at best.

"My lady! Mjoll!" Svana added, catching sight of Mjoll over my shoulder.

"Svana," Mjoll nodded. "You look well."

Svana simply smiled before relieving Mjoll and I of our wraps and bustling us into the kitchen. Without a word she began a carafe of warm honeyed wine to take the chill off the journey, which she immediately supplemented with what were clearly that morning's biscuits reheated and served with butter and honey.

I settled back in my chair, sipping the wine before helping myself to a biscuit. I had mixed feelings about Riften.

On the one hand, I think I can safely say that Madame Black-Briar and I are on ambivalent terms and that she'll be glad to pay me back in kind for putting her in an uncomfortable position.

On the other hand Marcurio, after some wrangling before I sent him back to Riften ostensibly in a huff about me, had agreed to be my man in Riften in return for whatever help he needs to rise. To my surprise, he had some ideas. So with all the money he made off me during this trip, he's got a foothold. From here on in, it only takes some legwork and he's to send me a courier if anything unusual comes up. He's also to send me weekly messages about the gossip.

He didn't ask why I wanted to know, and I didn't tell him. I think, after our talk, he believes the root of all this to be business between me and Madame. That's not inaccurate, though Madame is not very high on my list of Province-wide concerns. By the time I got to Windhelm, I felt confident I could silence Marcurio if he ever decided he tired of our arrangement.

But, for now, he doesn't need much. Just the knowledge that if he wants to join the Jarl's inner circle—which is what I want him to do—he needs to go through Anuriel to do it.

He's smart enough that I don't need to hold his hand.

"And this were left for you by your beau," Svana announced, bringing in a fist-sized bag of white linen, the kind apothecaries and alchemists use. I didn't need to take it from her before I could smell the contents: lavender, which I'd said was my favorite flower.

I guess he got the new gloves. The old ones were chafing, and that's not good.

"Have many correspondences come in during my absence?" I asked.

"Some. They're on the desk in your room. Shall I fetch them?"

"No, no. I'll look over them while I finish my snack. Mjoll, welcome home. You will see her settled?"

Svana bowed her head, and that was the last I saw of her as I took another honeyed buttered biscuit and the rest of my wine up to my office.

-L-

(Note left at Hjerim)

Dear Leandra,

I'll be back in the field before you get this, but I did want to say goodbye and writing it down seemed the only way to do it. Keep yourself well and don't let Windhelm's ice get to you.

Yours,

Ralof

P.S.: Thanks for the new gloves. I don't know how you knew the old ones were chafing something fierce.

-L-

(Whiterun, delivered by courier)

First Seed 9

Dear Leandra,

How are you? I hope things are still going well. I need to get ahold of a few items and I'm at my wits' end about how to do it. I'm sending you a list. Anything on it that you can find would be much appreciated.

Your friend and business partner,

Ysolda

(Inventory)

2 flawless diamonds

Copy of "Five Songs of King Wulfharth" (the better condition the better)

Dragon teeth or bones—these are in increasing demand everywhere so if you know a dragon-hunter…

Empty grand soul gem

Arcadia was asked about getting an herb. She can't find anything about it, but she said it was called jarrin root, and it's apparently something out of Morrowind. She says the commission for obtaining is it generous and she's prepared to be generous to anyone who can help her get it.

(End)

-L-

First Seed 15

Ysolda—

I spoke to a local alchemist, Nurelion, since you should never deal in things you don't know about. It's just as well that I did; he says to tell Arcadia not to get involved with this buyer. Jarrin root is apparently a very deadly material used to concoct virulent poisons—when I say 'virulent' I mean you're stone dead before anyone realizes you've been poisoned—and being out of Morrowind, you can bet the Morag Tong would make use of it. Ask yourself what a reputable person would want something like that for. Tell Arcadia to tell the authorities someone's looking to import something nasty.

Your friend,

Leandra

-L-

I looked at Ysolda's letter, then at mine upon which the ink was still drying. Jarrin root. Someone actually went around asking for that? Or did they think people would see a high price tag and _not_ bother asking questions?

But who's buying it?

And for who is it intended? The Emperor in Solitude? Ulfric? Is someone planning to kill a town?

From what Nurelion said, a single root—and they aren't large—can cause a great deal of damage for something so small.

I shivered inwardly, then looked at the ring on my finger. The muckledun stone indicated there was nothing poisonous near to hand. I slipped it off my finger and clenched it in my fist before sliding it back on and rolling my letter to Ysolda so I could fit it into the cylinder on the message hawk's leg.

"Mjoll, I'm heading for the palace—would you come with me?" I called, once my warning to Ysolda and Arcadia was on the way.

Mjoll appeared a moment later, wrapped herself up, and followed me into the grey sleet.


	25. Chapter 25

Special thanks to 16DarMidnight80 for looking over this!

-L-

Ulfric and Galmar were in talks with Jorleif, but for once it didn't seem to be about anything directly related to the war. With Jorleif thus occupied, I'd taken advantage of Ulfric's assurance that I had right of access as his diplomatic advisor and had one of the house servants take me to wherever Ulfric was.

He wasn't even in his strategy room, but in a more comfortable parlour in the residential quarters. Now why he can't maintain something reasonably similar in his great hall I have no idea. Wood gleamed and a good fire crackled in the hearth. The chairs were large and heavily padded, and in one of these Ulfric was almost sprawling, goblet in hand (which was tilting precariously since he was ignoring it in favor of whatever Jorleif was saying). Although it was clear that this was business, it didn't seem the overly serious sort.

Galmar, too, looked comfortable, perched on the arm of another very solid chair and looking a little less grumpy than usual—to the point of having actually taken off his bearskin. This wasn't surprising given the warmth of the room and the company within. The removal didn't diminish his size by much.

The silence had that quality that suggested whatever the serious matter was had just been concluded or resolved.

"You're back," Ulfric noted as he—having heard my delicate, attention-catching cough—waved me in.

"I am, my lord. May I present my housecarl Mjoll the Lioness, recently of Riften?" I asked, having paid a brief obeisance.

"You may." He studied her thoughtfully, as did Galmar, who slipped his bearskin back into place. That's going to be a penance to wear.

"My lord," Mjoll bowed politely, but said no more.

"Good pick," Galmar approved.

Wait until she meets Rolff. Then we'll see where you stand with that assessment.

"The Emperor's come to Skyrim," Ulfric announced without preamble.

"Yes, my lord. His cousin Vittoria is getting married in Solitude. And I have some unease over this visit." To say the least. While in Solitude—the date for the wedding was kicked around for some time, so everyone's been anticipating it for months and months. And, I may add, Vittoria would change the date just when people got bored talking and speculating. I think she liked being the talk of the town and _remaining_ the talk of the town.

"Of course you do," Ulfric responded blandly. "Can you operate in Solitude?"

"Not yet, my lord." From the indifference that met this statement, I figured he didn't expect me to be able to so he wasn't disappointed. "Which means his Penitus Oculatus had better be all they're cracked up to be," I answered darkly. Then, shaking myself and producing the handkerchief I'd wrapped the poison-detecting ring in. "I have come across some disturbing rumors and feel it necessary to bring them before your lordship."

Ulfric's expression of good humor slipped away.

Galmar tensed.

"Someone in Whiterun was looking for a rare and particularly nasty poison. I don't know who it's intended for. Maybe the Emperor. Maybe you. Maybe someone only one person cares about. But from what I gather, the buyer is someone who will pay well."

"We're closer to the Morrowind Border than Whiterun," Galmar noted.

"I asked Nurelion to let me know if anyone asked him about this reagent. He said in no uncertain terms that, knowing what jarrin root is for, he'd lock the would-be buyer in place and call the City Watch."

"What do you suspect?" Ulfric asked.

"I suspect everything. If this is meant for the Emperor, the Stormcloaks could be implicated whether they are involved or not."

Galmar snorted at the use of 'they' rather than 'we,' but everyone ignored him.

"If it is meant for you… that could be awkward for your cause. I suspect this poison is meant for the Emperor, and I have asked my friend in Whiterun to go to the authorities. I will, of course, forward a letter to Solitude, but it's uncertain whether that will do any good." I pinched the bridge of my nose before producing the ring, wrapped in a handkerchief.

"How worried do I need to be?" Ulfric asked.

"You don't need to allow this to incommode you." I opened the handkerchief and offered him the ring. "This ring detects poisons—the stone turns pale when close to one, the stronger the poison the paler the stone grows. Something like jarrin root would certainly not go unidentified."

Ulfric took the ring, frowning at it before looking to me. He slid it onto one finger, then looked past me. "Mjoll, Galmar, Jorleif—I'd like to speak to Thane Grey privately."

The room cleared, the two housecarls standing in front of the door. Ulfric beckoned me to follow him to the far end of the room, and spoke in a low tone. "How was Riften?"

"I believe I have found an acceptable plant and a way to integrate someone into Riften's higher circles. Madame Black-Briar refused the offer of Jarlship, but I've leveraged her cooperation for the time being by promising that the Stormcloaks won't seize her business and assets, or place them under a suitable custodian. Laila has been informed that your lordship thinks well of her and sends his compliments. As you can see, I have outfitted myself with a suitable housecarl. My steward should follow soon."

"And Whiterun?"

"I'm… assembling ideas," I answered cagily. "May I bring them before your lordship once they are more definite?"

"Of course." Ulfric stepped back, folding his hands behind his back. "Wars are fought during those months not overburdened with snow. Be expedient."

I inclined my head, accepting the almost-ultimatum.

"Write the letter to Solitude. It's impolitic for the Emperor to die here."

"I will not fail to do so, my lord."

"Pretend the Penitus Oculatus can't do their job."

"Then we need a way to deflect blame away from the Stormcloaks. I'll think about what can be done… but I think assassinating the Emperor is more agitation than the Thalmor would want to try controlling. It would re-spark the Great War, and I'm not sure they're any more ready for reignited hostilities than we are." Which means we can't pin it on them—the fallout is too much, too unpredictable. It would cause further splintering, fractures along unforeseen faults. In fact, if I see such chaos as a result, there's no way those witch-elves won't. Which means they would be as interested as we are in ensuring the guilty party is made publically known.

And it's possible that we'll never see this rare reagent. Nurelion knows it because he's ancient by human standards and has traveled. But I'm sure word can be gotten out about what it is and what it's wanted for. With such an important personage in the Province, most people would assume such an exotic poison would be for a high-profile victim.

The only culprit I can think of is the Dark Brotherhood. They don't care about chaos; they're contracted by whoever can pay. Still… it's a bit… blatant… to go around asking local alchemists for this kind of reagent. Maybe I'm making too much out of this.

But, studying Ulfric's profile as he ruminated, I decided better too much fuss than not. If it's meant for Ulfric, that would complicate my own plans. If it's meant for the Emperor… well. He had bodyguards and all sorts of security. Surely if I can come across a ring such as the one now guarding Ulfric from poison then the Emperor has one. That sounds like basic security, especially in a known-to-have-hostiles province.

Still…

-L-

"Alms for a poor beggar?" a cracked, wheedling voice asked.

I turned, reaching into a pocket as I did so. The coin vanished into the beggar's hand. "Saw a familiar face yesterday—Dunmer in the Grey Quarter, slender, short dark hair. Wore a silk scarf, carried a case with her, spoke in a whisper. Pretty thing, too. Was asking questions here before—back when the Butcher was still loose."

"Really?" I asked, producing another coin.

"Aye."

"What was she asking this time?" There was reason to believe this woman was implicated with the death of Nilsine Shatter-Shield, simply given the timing, a corpse out of sequence, and an 'investigator' who 'investigated' and then disappeared. But she wouldn't be noticed if she stuck to the Grey Quarter.

"Nothing strange. Wanted to know if she could get a boat to Morrowind and when. Found a small boat, took her and her companion off that day. Must've paid handsome."

I handed her the coin. "Tell me about the case."

The beggar shrugged. "Just a case, wooden, carved pretty. About like this," she indicated a shape almost as big as a woman's torso, but thin.

"Tell me about her companion."

"Aw, him'd be remembered; strange kind of fella for a lady to want around her. Jumpy, red hair… something funny about his eyes. Him she left at Candlehearth while she was asking her questions. Came back and got him, then they was back off to the docks." The beggar teetered uneasily. "Saw me, he did. Just… his head snapped round, _looked_ at me, he did… leaned over to her, whispered to her."

"And then?"

"She just wrapped her arm round his and walked him off. Seemed amused by whatever he said. If I had to say… well. Haven't slept well since they left. Never know when they might be back."

I studied the beggar, shivering more from nerves than cold, while considering what I had in my purse. "I think Windhelm is very dangerous for you, my friend. I wonder if you would deliver a message for me, in return for the coin to go to Riften? It's safer. Warmer."

The beggar looked incredulous, then suspicious. "What sort of message?"

"I would want you to tell the mage, Marcurio, from his new friend that charity is becoming in a man of his position. That his new friend's friends may have things to tell him and he should make note of them. And then you should tell your friends about my friend's open ears… and open hands." I've wondered how to establish ears in other cities. Now I have at least one.

And I'll send a horse courier in advance of this fellow to ensure Marcurio gets the message… and that if he doesn't to let me know. I think that this woman will complete her commission for the chance to get out of Riften in case the Dunmer and her companion come back. Still, if this woman isn't dead yet I doubt she's in much danger.

"I could do that," the beggar said softly. "I could indeed."

"Good. Wait here for me. I'll return directly." Because, of course, I can't just hand over a big wad of gold; it's hard to carry and I don't need her robbed along the way.

-L-

(Delivered by courier)

17 First Seed

Sir Marcurio,

A woman will bring you a message from me. A single coin is her due. Ask her what her arrangement with me is and honor it on my behalf. Collect and forward allthe scraps they bring you.

-L-

18 First Seed

Whiterun

Dear Leandra,

I spoke to Arcadia about the individual offering her a commission to obtain the jarrin root. She says she'll remember what you said and has promised to put the word out to any of the alchemists of her acquaintance what jarrin root is, in case the would-be buyer asks about it elsewhere.

She says the would-be buyer was a woman, probably a Nord, but wore a scarf over her hair. Arcadia says her eyes were remarkably green and she had a pretty manner—someone of good breeding. She wasn't someone local—not asking for jarrin root—and Arcadia said the woman made it sound harmless. Like love-potion harmless.

Your friend,

Ysolda

-L-

(Delivered by courier)

19 First Seed

Bee and Barb Inn

Madame,

The woman arrived, found me, and said you—I assume you, as she didn't use names—sent her. I paid her as you requested. She says she'll spread the word.

Cordially,

Marcurio

-L-

20 First Seed

To Thane Grey, Hjerim—

My lady, it is my duty to inform you that your housecarl Mjoll the Lioness has been arrested for civil disruption, assault and very nearly resisting arrest. You are required to appear at once before Jarl Ulfric to resolve the matter.

At your service,

Lorik, Captain of the Watch

(Countersigned by Jorleif the Steward)

-L-

"I am sorry, my Jarl," I said, contriving to look more surprised than I felt. "I don't know what could have provoked her. "Mjoll is a kind woman, if a little stern."

Ulfric frowned as if he wasn't quite convinced of my words.

Galmar, the other injured party—or at least representing the injured party—looked upset… and that upset did seem to be leveled at his brother rather than me or my housecarl.

"I certainly do apologize for her, my lord."

Ulfric motioned to the guardsmen who stood just outside the door to the small audience room into which he'd called Galmar and me.

Mjoll (who looked calm and composed, her chin jutting defiantly) and Rolff (who seemed to be hungover rather than drunk, and looking more than a little nervous) were walked in. Mjoll seemed to tower over Rolff in a way that made him look even filthier than usual and much more a lesser man than his brother. Even in shackles, she seemed even more iconic as a 'true Nord' (in terms of heart and valor, as well as looks) than she usually does.

"My Jarl," Mjoll said, bowing her head briefly.

"My Jarl…" Rolff repeated. He had a spectacular bruise forming on his jaw which looked like Mjoll's right hook and from the way he stooped she might have hit in him the guts.

Ulfric looked from Mjoll and me to Galmar and Rolff—and to his credit Galmar looked both abashed about and mildly disgusted with his brother. More, I think, because this was a blow to pride than anything else.

I do love Mjoll. I'd wondered how to contrive her running to Rolff in one of his more charming moments and it turns out I didn't have to contrive at all. All I knew was that she'd been walking Svana to the Snow Quarter's seamstress to pick up a few items I'd commissioned and things went downhill from there.

"I was minding my own business," Rolff grunted.

"By _some_ ridiculously loose definitions, perhaps," Mjoll answered sourly, once she was certain he'd finished his defense. "I found this… person… drunk in the street, shouting the most awful things to the 'grey-skins.'"

"No law against voicing an opinion," Rolff answered. "And it's a common opinion."

"For the most common of people, perhaps. You do demonstrate that," came Mjoll's quick retort. I had to work not to smile at this—it was a clever bit of wording.

Rolff's face turned pink beneath the stubble and grime.

"Threats to citizens of Windhelm ought to be taken seriously. When I noticed a nearby watchman, I accosted him and he preferred not to get into it—his words—with this fellow. So _I_ got into it." Mjoll shook her head. "At the very least, he frightened my thane's housemaid."

Clever of her, more clever than I expected, however highly I think of her: it might be one thing to voice threats that might be considered idle. Offering insult to a thane's household is a little more actionable.

Rolff shifted as though waiting for Mjoll to add something.

Something clicked in my mind. "Did you put your hands on my housecarl?" I asked quietly, sensing that this was true. It was just like Mjoll to downplay anything he did to _her_ since she was perfectly able to deal with trouble. Svana had been in a state when she informed me that Mjoll had been arrested.

"That's immaterial, my thane," Mjoll answered with calm dignity that left no doubt in anyone's mind.

I snorted at 'that's immaterial.' 'That' is considered provocation, though I think her humility in allowing Svana's distress (and that of the Snow Quarter residents) to be the chief points was a wonderful presentation.

"Once I'd laid the fellow out the Watch came and arrested us both. Disturbing the peace, I think he said." The lack of derision in her voice suggested she knew that they needed a real, genuine reason to arrest the man, divining from the normal way of things in Riften that the fellow had powerful friends keeping him out of trouble however much trouble he made.

Unlike in Riften, they probably swooped in like they ought to have. Fewer bribes, if Galmar's shadow is the only thing protecting Rolff. Galmar wouldn't stoop to bribery. In fact, he'd probably take a swing at the imprudent person who suggested it.

Ulfric, with his best impassive expression, looked from Mjoll to Rolff. "Do you contest anything in this woman's story?"

Rolff shifted, wilting further. I doubt he's ever been in this much trouble, let alone been taken to task over anything that sprayed out of his drunken mouth. "No, my Jarl."

"Am I to suppose he sought to physically repel or detain you?" Ulfric asked.

Mjoll clearly didn't like admitting to this and I knew why: she doesn't worry about her safety, just the safety and wellbeing of minding-their-own-business people. Or maybe it was that he went down so easily and she feels guilty, having expected more starch to him. That might be it. "Yes, my jarl."

"Galmar, as Rolff was the instigator, he will remain in prison until the day after tomorrow. After that you may redeem him if you wish," Ulfric said. "This is a respectable city."

Which means avoiding Mjoll… or minding his manners.

I didn't smile, but I wanted to. I didn't look at Galmar, either. It wasn't a lot of progress into trying to ease some of the tensions within Windhelm, but it was a start—as I said early on when asked about problems, quelling Rolff would go a long way.

"I expect there to be no more such altercations," Ulfric continued, pinning both Mjoll and Rolff in turn, the very image of the fair judge. "It's unbecoming."

"Your pardon, my Jarl," Mjoll answered, bowing her head as if recognizing the reasonability of the sentiment, even if she was right in the first place. The jut of her chin said as much. And no one had any doubt that if she felt she needed to intervene, she would.

"Your pardon, my Jarl," Rolff echoed.

The Watch representatives were waved in by Ulfric. "Take this man back to his cell. He may be redeemed at the usual price beginning the morning of the day after tomorrow. Otherwise, he will serve his time."

Rolff was walked away by the guards at an intimation from Ulfric.

"Mjoll the Lioness will be released immediately as she was not the instigator and at her Thane's request." Ulfric gave me a look which didn't really mean anything except that certain forms were obeyed.

The remaining Watchwoman undid the shackles on Mjoll's wrists.

"My I dismiss Mjoll?" I asked softly.

"You may."

"Mjoll, please wait for me outside."

"My thane." Mjoll bowed her head and withdrew.

"I expect there to be no more altercations of this nature," Ulfric repeated, this time to Galmar and me.

I turned to Galmar. "You do have my apologies, Sir Galmar." I didn't mean it, but it was what I was expected to say, just as it was Galmar's place to take the blame upon himself since Rolff was his brother and the antagonist.

The last of the forms obeyed, Ulfric dismissed us both.

"I didn't mean to embroil you in this," Mjoll announced once we were outside and squinting because of the glare on the snow.

"It's quite alright. I don't mind apologizing for such altercations; Rolff needed to learn that there were people who don't notice the shapes of ears or recognize 'friends in high places.'" And I think that, this time, Galmar really will give Rolff the old-fashioned word... and _enforce_ it.

Maybe I do Galmar an injustice and this isn't such a horrible thing. Family ties can be tricky: maybe he wasn't the only one who needed an excuse to do something about Rolff. There, I'll let that be my charitable thought for the day—whatever doubts about the accuracy of it I might entertain.

-L-

(Journal Ulfric Stormcloak, First Seed 20)

Leandra's slow to build groundwork but once she has it her plans close like a steel trap. Through some contrivance I don't doubt will never be discovered, she got her 'crusader' (as she calls the woman) of a housecarl on the same early morning street as Galmar's brother. The next thing I know, I have missives from the Captain of the Guard saying that Rolff (once he woke up—Mjoll seemed to have hit him rather hard) name dropped. Mjoll refused until she was point-blank asked if someone was responsible for her.

Loyalty is an important trait in a housecarl, and it was clear she wouldn't embroil her Thane until absolutely necessary.

I did wonder about someone coming out of Riften and whom Leandra regarded, her politics being what they are. But she couldn't have found a better iconic 'true daughter of Skyrim' outside the Stormcloaks. Now I know what Leandra meant when she said she knew she would spend time apologizing for her housecarl.

It came back to me, once I had all four of them in a room, that she'd said something about Rolff being muzzled—or at least leashed. I should be annoyed over feeling like I'd been backed into a corner—it's one thing for a ruler to show a certain indulgence to his housecarl. It's another to extend that to his housecarl's brother.

I have to say, in that family Galmar got everything Rolff apparently did not. I would never admit it to anyone and I'll probably scratch this out later, but it's true. I did wonder for a few moments if she might not be angling to create some kind of rift between Galmar and I that she might fill… but on reflection I don't think so. I'll keep an eye on the possibility and if she is, well, we'll deal with that when the time comes.

This proof of action couldn't have come at a better time. It's late in First Seed, the time when wars are traditionally begun or renewed and I haven't heard a peep about Whiterun except that she's still thinking. I hope her plans for Whiterun are as decisive, once she has things lined up.


	26. Chapter 26

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-J-

Having traveled hard and pushed the horses, Mjoll and I were able to make it to Whiterun to stay the night before continuing on to Falkreath. As I was in Whiterun and knew who Ulfric had lined up to take over from Balgruuf, I decided it was best to see him for myself. So I left Mjoll contentedly drinking mead in the Bannered Mare. Being unused to horses or long travel—having been stationary in Riften for so long—she didn't argue babysitting me while I made my personal calls.

A housecarl is a defender, but a wise one knows the difference between defense and a stranglehold. And Mjoll knows or surmises that I can take care of myself for the most part in a town or city. I'm not so well-known outside Windhelm that I need to worry about assassins just yet.

I studied Vignar Grey-Mane, who studied me right back. He wasn't as old as Eorlund—or didn't look it—but was a bit thicker around the midsection than an active man would be. He dressed with more attention and richness than his relatives which suggested he enjoyed a certain degree of leisure. I thought him a bit… well. I can't say I took a violent liking to him at first sight. I won't call him a flimsy character but I do think he might be flimsy compared to me when it comes to doing what is necessary.

I won't overburden him with definite information.

Since Vignar knew he was up for the throne, it was best he knew me as one of 'Ulfric's people.' As I was a friend of House Grey-Mane, no one would question my visit to Fralia and Eorlund's. And as long as I visited Ysolda (whom I'd seen at the gate, chatting with the Khajiiti caravan) no one would question my business in Whiterun.

"My lord Ulfric sends his regards, Master Grey-Mane," I finally announced.

"That's good to hear," Vignar agreed. "Though I don't believe we've met." His glance at Fralia indicated the only reason he believed me was because Fralia did.

"Leandra Grey," I answered. "Thane of Windhelm."

Vignar's eyebrows rose. "Then I am in illustrious company."

"Not so very. I merely wished to make your acquaintance. His lordship speaks highly of you."

Vignar's expression took on shades of self-satisfaction. "I hope there's other kinds of speaking going on."

"Of course, and I believe those things will bear fruit soon. But I need a few things from you, answers to a few questions I have."

"Oh?"

I'd been considering plans for Whiterun, but had come up against a few obstacles. "I need to remove something from Whiterun discreetly. Not now, not so very soon, but soon enough."

"I'll think on it."

"I'll need people inside the palace supportive of the Stormcloak cause—and supportive of the Jarl's family."

Vignar looked at me curiously. "I'll make some inquiries, of course."

"When I said dedicated, I mean it. One hesitation or deviation from plan on their part puts innocent blood on their souls."

"…ah. _That_ kind of dedicated." Vignar studied me, not liking whatever my patchwork of ideas introduced into his mind. "I'll make inquiries," he said softly.

I'd decided that the best way to Balgruuf was to grab him by the heart and squeeze. That meant using his children. So I need something to keep the children quiet; I don't need them screaming and fighting and carrying on. Someone might get hurt and if they happen to be that 'someone' my plan goes out the window.

I need a drug or something and time to work out dosage. It's easy to overdose someone, but otherwise…

"Anything else?" Vignar asked cordially. Clearly he felt involving 'innocent blood' on the hands of those not sufficiently dedicated to the cause unsettled him… and colored his opinion of me in no good way.

"If you can keep your people out of bowshot when the siege comes, that would help. I might need two or three to act as guards for the thing I'm removing—until my lads can take over."

"Your lads?"

"I can't very well secret myself _and_ them in Whiterun during a siege," I frowned at him.

Fralia said nothing, she hadn't liked the ideas 'innocent blood' suggested either, but in the vein of a mother reckoning on a fellow woman I think she was willing to believe I was acting in the children's interests rather than against them.

"You'll be here?"

"In person, sir. It's my plan, after all. I can't very well trust it to anyone else—that would be irresponsible." It's something I don't intend to tell anyone except Ulfric and Galmar.

"Indeed," Vignar agreed, sounding hearty… but in the way that covers unease. "Is that all?"

I decided not to mention the narcotic I needed in front of Fralia and Vignar at risk of alienating the former and finding the latter losing his nerve. Strange how people prefer the drawn-out bloodshed of a battle to something quick, clean, and effective.

After all, I'll be there to superintend. A well-laid plan might go wrong, true, but I'll have precaution after precaution, alternative after alternative, and I'll be there to decide how best to deal with people's interferences with my plans.

It warmed my heart a little to know I wasn't being cavalier with young lives. I'm not quite that much of a monster.

-L-

"I'm sorry," I shook myself out of my brooding to study a disapproving Ysolda. A spark of inspiration hit me like a blow to the head. "…there's a town in the Pale having trouble sleeping—bad dreams, people are talking about bad omens and hoping for a competent set of hands."

"Why hasn't anyone contacted the Vigilants?"

"I don't know." Truth is, I don't know if that issue has been resolved or not—it could well have been and news of a problem fixed doesn't travel as quickly as news of a problem. "But I was thinking, there could be a market for sleep aids until a professional problem solver moves themselves to intervene."

Ysolda frowned, then a faintly sneaky gleam came into her eyes.

"I know that look," I chuckled.

She turned pink in the cheeks, as if I'd accused her of something not quite awful but not at all proper. "It's not as bad as you think—and I won't profiteer on those poor people's sufferings," she answered, as if to counteract the sneakiness I'd observed.

"No more would I," I added hastily. But that's the market and however sweet a girl she is she understands that as well as I do. It's the sweetness that keeps her from taking advantage of her clients and completely fleecing them by being the only option for a product.

Ysolda shrugged. "Well… I did hire someone out to take care of this but he's not come back."

I disappeared behind my tea. "Spill."

"Well, there's a tree in the Hold—I've seen it, so I know it's there," she began excitedly. "I mean, I only found out about it a few months ago through a traveler's tale. It's called Sleeping Sap Tree for obvious reasons: its sap makes you healthy as a cave troll but slow as a drunk horker."

" _Really_?" And that's just its raw form. Imagine what a skilled alchemist like Nurelion could do with it. If I were superstitious I'd say the Divines had just smiled on me. I reached into my satchel and produced my canister of maps, which I unrolled and rifled through until I found Whiterun's. "Do you know where it is?"

Ysolda considered the place, then set her finger down. "Somewhere in here," she pointed to the western half of the province. "This is as close as I can place it, but it had giants camping nearby. That's why I hired a fellow."

I'm not worried about giants. I don't want to just go careening after the stuff, either. It would make me seem overeager. And yet…

No, I'll get started in Falkreath. But stomping around in the wilderness needs planning and preparation and I've done neither.

But I would like to see if Nurelion couldn't refine something like this sap into a true sedative.

"Tell me about this tree. I don't think I've ever heard of it."

"Of course not, it's supposedly a secret—and only a few people listen to the Caravans," she answered smugly, disappearing behind her tea. "The tree glows purple, and the pond it grows out of gives off a strange sort of mist. Some say that when Vvardenfell erupted, a piece was blown to the middle of Skyrim and from the crater grew the tree." Ysolda suddenly chuckled, shaking her head. "But I've also heard that it was a spore that fell from an island floating in the sky. That just sounds like nonsense."

"It does." But however it came to be there, it _is_ there and can be harvested.

"You seem to know everyone and their dog. If you know anyone who enjoys tempting fate in his spare time, you'll let him—or her, I suppose—know I'm looking for sap? I pay out a hundred and fifty septims for each vial of this size," she indicated with her hand a vial about as long as her middle finger and as round as the circle made by her forefinger and the first bend in her thumb.

"I'll put the word around and see if I can find any takers. No promises, though—not with dragons and poisoners and partisans in the war creeping around."

Ysolda's mouth dropped open and she shook herself. "Could you imagine what armies would do with something like that if they found out about it?" The idea clearly displeased and worried her.

"I can. I'll be careful who I tell," I agreed somberly, appreciating the irony. The sap would lose its value to me if it became a widely-known thing. Someone would cook up something to counteract it.

-L-

I debated whether to stop in Riverwood at all. It struck me as odd, wanting to avoid meeting Gerdur, though I couldn't quite explain to myself why I felt that way. But just as I always updated Fralia about her sons, even when I didn't have letters from them, I felt it my duty to let Gerdur know her brother was still alive and well.

So I compromised with myself: I would ride through Riverwood and if I saw Gerdur or Frodnar I'd stop and pass the time—but be clear that I did need to reach Falkreath before nightfall. If I didn't see them, I'd continue on.

To my relief, the adults seemed at their work and Frodnar at his play, so I passed through without being remarked.

"My thane?" Mjoll reached over and touched my arm, her expression etched with concern. "Are you alright?"

I found my expression had fallen into deeply unhappy lines. "I'm sorry," I forced my features back into pleasant neutrality. "I didn't sleep well last night. My dreams troubled me and I fell into brooding."

More like brooding over the future. I shouldn't, since it hasn't come yet, but…

"That's something I understand," she said sympathetically. "But brooding encourages them to come back."

"It does," I agreed. "You looked like you were having a pleasant time at the Mare."

Mjoll grinned. "Had a few lively sorts in there." And, in a kind effort to keep me from brooding, she proceeded to tell me about it in detail.

-L-

Valga Vinicia was a charming woman who was born to be an innkeeper. Plump and chatty, she had a way of getting people to open up to her. Maybe it was the sparkle in her eye, maybe it was the rowdy and boisterous—but never _too_ boisterous—atmosphere the Dead Man's Drink maintained. I always enjoyed the irony of the name versus the atmosphere of the establishment.

"Narri!" a voice boomed. In any other establishment the maid would have flinched, but Narri simply turned as she set someone's tankard down (and with a smirk avoided the attempt of the patron to catch her hand along with the mug). "This mead takes like water and the meat has gone off!" In this case, the patron didn't sound like he was joking.

I stood on tiptoe, leaning on the bar to support my weight to see Dengeir seated in a corner.

Dengeir was Jarl before his nephew somehow got in. I don't know the whole story and it doesn't really matter: one's quite as bad as the other, to hear the citizenry. Dengeir was going crazy with paranoia and his snot of a nephew would fit right in in Riften among the classless and corrupt.

Unfortunately for me and probably Falkreath, Dengeir was Ulfric's pick, the plan being to reinstate him as Jarl. In my opinion this is a mistake.

"The mead is the same as it ever was," Narri said in a chipper tone that didn't match the way her mouth pursed between sentences. "And the meat is fresh. Maybe your sense of taste has 'gone off.'"

The end of this sentence 'along with your mind,' was unspoken, but everyone who could read between the lines laughed heartily. It wasn't kind, but from Narri's tone the accusation of tampering was old and ceased long ago to be amusing. That she could smile cheerfully while sounding pleasant as she answered back said something about her character.

Dengeir huffed irritably. "The impertinence! If I were still Jarl—"

"Dengeir," Narri's smile was all syrup, plunking the fresh tankard Valga had slipped to her, "we had this argument every week even when you _were_ jarl. Why should that change, hm?"

Dengeir huffed bit, but looked mildly mollified.

If Narri hadn't been in public, I think she'd have rolled her eyes. After all, why should such a paranoid man come to a tavern where anyone could put anything into his food or drink?

"At some point we should hire Tekla on, here. If she could just spend less time serving Dengeir…" Narri mumbled to Valga with an appealing look.

Valga sighed. If it wasn't an old thing, she'd have been offended at Dengeir's comments about mead like water and meat gone off. But he's a good patron and she won't alienate him, even if she'd let tongues wag freely in his direction as long as it's done playfully enough for the atmosphere to allow.

Narri is someone else people talk to. She can ensure that a barbed comment doesn't offend the one she sinks it into with a scrunching of her nose—and because she's not scrunching her cute little nose at them, no one _else_ misses the barb so everyone laughs at someone else's obliviousness.

"I wish I could afford to pay you _and_ Tekla, Narri," Valga said, shaking her head.

"Is the inn doing badly?" I asked, rejoining the conversation.

"I can't match whatever Dengeir pays her to put up with his nonsense and taxes…" Valga shook her head, but bared her teeth in the way she does when she's biting back a malediction against someone.

"Do you know what he did the other day?" Narri asked me, glowering.

"Hey, Narri!"

Narri sighed, then pasted her smile into place. "Duty calls," she said in a singsong tone.

"I do at that," Valga grunted. "If it weren't for Thadgeir…" She shook her head.

Thadgeir spends a lot of time trying to keep the peace between his brother and everyone else. He's a good man, but I don't envy his position.

"I keep waiting for him to toss her out; I won't feel so bad about not being able to pay as well, but he doesn't. And he won't. I don't think there's anyone else who would put up with him—that girl is a _saint_."

"Is Siddgeir being clever?" I asked sympathetically, paying for another round and directing Narri to take it over to Mjoll who was sitting by the fire and watching the rest of the room.

Valga's nostrils flared. "Clever. See that hefty lad in the corner there, with the squint? If I could lay him off I could hire Tekla and give poor Narri a raise. Know why he's there? Siddgeir—and pretending he doesn't know a thing about it, the wretch—paid a fellow to shake me down. When that fellow was turned out on his ear, he came back with friends." Valga frowned. "After hours. Smashed a few things up before the guard caught up with them. Got off with barely a slap to the wrists. Now, I don't know why they haven't come back, but I pay the lad and give him room and board. But the day after those louds were released, Siddgeir makes adjustment to the taxes _claiming_ it's an Empire-wide change."

I could see the malediction she was biting back as if it was etched in the air above her head. "What's Siddgeir's problem?"

"If I had to guess," Narri hissed softly as she returned, " _inadequacy_. If you know what I mean." She winked at me and I had to chuckle.

"As long as you don't actually _know_ ," I answered.

"She can certainly do better than _that_ ," Valga muttered.

"Not difficult, Valga," Narri laughed loudly at this. "Explains why he is the way he is, though. Single Jarl without even a fortune-hunting would-be mistress chasing after him? Maybe word got around."

"Speaking of word getting around," Valga grinned wolfishly at me and poured me a glass of wine. "You've always got the juiciest gossip and I never see you anymore."

"Yes, I've been conducting business on the east side of the Province. But surely you've seen my friend Ysolda handling business on the west side?"

"She had mentioned that," Valga agreed, pushing the goblet towards me.

"You know me so well," I paid the sum for the wine, which is unusual in Skyrim but my favorite anywhere. "Well, there's a mage angling to make a name for himself in Riften."

"Good luck with that," Valga said, and it was hard to tell if she meant it honestly or sarcastically.

The thing about Valga is that she doesn't care Empire or Stormcloak—each is as good and bad as the other. She cares about Falkreath, which Siddgeir understandably would find threatening—because he's not Falkreath and is only pro-Empire because it's more profitable at the moment.

"The Butcher in Windhelm was found and killed."

"Thank goodness for that. Who got him?"

"A band of concerned citizens. Turns out it was some funny little man running a museum—a necromancer of all things!"

"See? _This_ is why we in Skyrim don't like having to do with magic!" She almost snarled. "Too many freaks in the lot." Then, as if she didn't much care, "What was this one up to, then?"

"Well, it was thought he was trying to resurrect a lover… but the girl turned out to be his sister. I'll admit, I was a bit disturbed when I heard about that." A lot of people in the know were disturbed about that. It still gives me the creeps and makes me glad I'm not a mage.

"Like I said, too many freaks in the lot," Valga huffed.

"There was a business with bad dreams up in the Pale."

"We'd heard—but that's been put to rest, so to speak. Couple of Companions must've gotten bored and hauled themselves up there. Some Daedra or other got its smallclothes in a knot. You know how they are." She gave me one of those speaking looks of her, which made me smile.

"I do." And it makes perfect sense. "Valga… why do you think Siddgeir is being such a little snot?"

"Because he can't help it," she answered flatly, but not repressively. She sighed. "It got back to him that more than one person at more than one time joked I'd make a better Jarl than he would. Joke that it was, the support of it must've worried him. Bit of his uncle showing itself, I expect."

I considered this as I sipped my wine. I have two glaring problems with regards to Whiterun that I don't think Vignar can help with. I need a safe place to move Balgruuf's children and keep them—somewhere other than where their father is, and somewhere I don't need to tell Ulfric about. I don't trust him not to get ideas in a fit of pique or vindictiveness when he feels he's been provoked and try to use the club I'll be holding over Balgruuf's head beyond what I intend. So they need to be somewhere else, somewhere safe and quiet. I'm almost certain I can convince Balgruuf to tell them a little lie: that this is his doing to keep them safe and they should be the obedient and good children he knows them to be.

That shows what he knows, but his word will keep the experience of being kidnapped and held by outside powers less traumatic.

I also need someone to look after them, someone trustworthy. I don't think I'd like to ask any of House Grey-Mane. They're too partisan… but wait. There's an idea… there's an ongoing saga between two young people in Whiterun, one from House Battle-Born and one from House Grey-Mane. I expect they'd be married by now and possibly expecting their first _if_ they weren't on opposite sides of a feuding family… or if they had a way around that stumbling block. Because to leave Whiterun where they'd be safe would require a plan of some kind—you can't just wander about Skyrim living off love and kisses.

This bears thinking about. The question remains, as it often does, _how_ to make it happen. A safe place and patronage… in return for managing a household for me and looking after 'my little brothers and sister' (though, eventually, the truth will come out). With it being put about Whiterun that they'd run away together, they'd keep their distance until they had reason to believe tempers in both families had cooled off. They're not partisan, these two lovers; they may even be like Valga, interested in what's good for their Hold rather than respecting current status quo or 'the way it's always been.'

I'll have to meet them, talk to them, and see what I think once I've done so. Otherwise I'll need to find some other appropriate person. Someone I can trust.

"Leandra?" Valga, almost laughing, thumped the bar several times. "You've got the dreamiest expression I've ever seen on that stern little face of yours. Met some lad have you?"

I looked up, wondering that my expression should have gone 'dreamy' while considering what I'd been considering. Better than blankly staring at the bar, I suppose. "Yes." And at risk of brooding, which is bad for planning, I tried not to think too hard about the matter. Four weeks in the field is ample time to change one's mind or come to correct realizations.

Valga choked a little. I've been accused of being far too picky. "Well," she responded, a little off-balance by the unexpected answer to her teasing. "…if you come up with any ideas about my problems, I'd love to hear them. Goodness knows I've looked them over front, back, and sideways."

"I'll see what I can do, Valga. I couldn't do less for such a good friend." Maybe I should send some muscle… but I can't just leave even one of the lads—or their lads—twiddling his thumbs here. That would be wasteful.


	27. Chapter 27

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

"I have an idea about your problem," I announced to Valga the next morning at breakfast. "You know the old adage, keep your friends close but your enemies closer?" I settled at the bar, still empty in the early morning—and how Narri and Valga keep the hours they do without killing themselves I'll never know—and accepted with pleasure the plate of eggs, slightly-burnt horker sausage, and toast. I will say I'm not fond of the bread at the Dead Man's Drink… I just won't say it to Valga.

"That sounds ominous," Valga answered cagily, setting down a mug of sweetened milk to go with my breakfast.

"It is." I left off, intending to let her ask the question. I was halfway through my eggs—I'm one of those weird people who eats her food by groups—when Valga spoke up.

"Alright, let's have it. It doesn't hurt to listen and we're still quiet at this hour."

True enough. "Siddgeir thinks you're a threat? Prove you're not. I'm sure he—or his steward—has a task that could alleviate some of his concerns."

"Hmph. If it's me asking, I'm sure he'll send me on some wild snipe hunt that turns out to be a deathtrap." She shook her head wearily.

"Then I'll ask. He doesn't know me,"

"…and he's dumb enough not to ask too many questions." Valga actually gave me a wry grin. She didn't sound supportive of the idea, but she didn't dead-set against it, either.

"I worry for my friends," I noted gently. "And I don't like seeing them in trouble."

Which leads me to the problem of Dengeir and Siddgeir, two of the _worst_ leaders for Falkreath you could ever hope to meet. Now, I feel a little bad tarring Thadgeir with the same brush as his brother and nephew, but I think it's time Falkreath passed out of _that_ family's hands. I understand Dengeir and Ulfric go way back; I appreciate why Dengeir is the way he is and he has my sympathy.

However, sympathy doesn't enter into what's best for Falkreath and what's best for Falkreath is new blood. So to speak.

-L-

Jarl Siddgeir's steward was an Altmer named Nenya. When I arrived, Siddgeir was in full spate at her in his whiny-bored voice that makes one long for fingernails against a slate by comparison. It's this droning whine and just gets into your ears and—

"That doesn't explain _why_ the taxes from Granite Hill aren't in yet," Siddgeir pouted. "Nenya, we should send some guards down there." I decided he might be handsome if he put on a little muscle—it's rare to see such a skinny ferret in Skyrim—and scraped off that little beard-thing… it looks like the result of having missed a spot while shaving one too many times…

…no. No, the attitude saps all chances for being good-looking. Then again, my taste apparently runs towards blonds, so maybe that's part of it, too.

"That is not an unreasonable idea, my Jarl, but they are only a little late—it would cost more to send out the guards than to wait a little. After all, trade routes are affected by the war, we should give them another day or two." She said it so reasonably, in such a gently persuasive tone that I took an immediate liking to her.

I would never compare Siddgeir and Ulfric, but I seem to remember having a few conversations of similar tone.

Siddgeir frowned at this, ensnared by the argument involving money. Now, what he wants it all for I couldn't say—it isn't as though there's much to buy in Falkreath and he certainly hasn't made steps in acquiring a wife or mistress (or both), or buying an extension for his longhouse, or importing fine horses (not that imports are really so very useful in Skyrim, since they require so much pampering to handle the local climate), or furnishing himself with hawks or hounds. He's certainly made no efforts to improve his Hold, like doing something to make the roads a little more reliable.

Maybe he just puts it all in the cellar or his mattress and sleeps on it at night, dragon-like.

Another reason to simply assassinate him rather than keep him under lock and key: government seizure of his personal property, the legitimate part returned to the Hold of Falkreath with a goodwill restoration from the Stormcloak faction. That sounds more than a little reasonable and, I don't doubt, 'taxes' will come down if Siddgeir's not managing the books—or telling his steward how to manage them. And Ulfric's coffers wouldn't complain of an inflow of fresh coin.

"Very well," Siddgeir sighed. "Make sure they know of our forbearance over this… reticence to pay."

Mjoll, until then silent at my shoulder, gave a soft snort that went unheard by anyone but me.

"I shall not fail to do so, my Jarl." Nenya bowed as Siddgeir waved her away. I truly felt bad for her, this worthy steward. Many people wonder how Siddgeir manages to run his Hold without it collapsing on top of his head; most assume his steward is responsible and, it appears, she is. And probably works a lot harder than one might think.

From my corner, I watched him frowning moodily at his longhouse, which was fairly empty. "Here now." His eyes had lit upon me. "You, you there, in the corner. Come here." The way he pointed at the ground made me think he was summoning a dog.

"Good luck," Mjoll murmured.

"Thanks."

Without allowing my expression to change from bland neutrality, I presented myself, curtsying properly. Little twits like Siddgeir respond well to things that stroke their fragile little egos; hence my excess of courtesy. Because it really was an excess.

"A supplicant?"

"I beg your pardon?" I lifted my eyes from the well-fitted planks of the floor.

Siddgeir gave me a patronizing look. "Yours is a new face, Madame," he answered condescendingly. "Therefore I assume you have presented yourself as a supplicant… and hold back for want of courage."

I know that tone.

"Therefore speak, Madame. You have my undivided attention."

Wow. And here's me not entirely certain what to say. "I had come to ask your lordship…" Aha. "…on my own behalf… you see, Valga Vinicia is a dear friend of mine and, as I understand it, calumnious mouths have put her in your bad graces. I was wondering if there might be something she could do to prove her loyalty to Falkreath and restore your favor to her."

Siddgeir almost pouted. "Let her bring such petty matters herself. I see no reason she should require a go-between."

"Nor has she asked me, my lord. In fact, I daresay she'll be annoyed with me, in spite of her concern that your bad opinion of her might color the meeting if she were to present herself." Then, as if uncertain but then motivated by desperation on a friend's behalf, "I will not conceal from you that her inn struggles… and if it fails it will bring no revenues for the Hold, which would be a great loss."

The magic words were 'revenues' and 'great loss.' I don't doubt that in his anxiety over jokes about Valga becoming Jarl—and I'd considered the possibility, once the balance of power changes—he forgets that to tax too heavily can cause an establishment to crumple. And Valga's business is the largest and most prosperous in Falkreath. I might go so far as to say that every other business here is dependent on the custom Valga houses in order to be successful. Without an inn, people might see fit to simply pass through, stocking up at Riverwood to cover the large gap between respectably established settlements.

"Hm." Slowly, a smile spread across Siddgeir's face, a spiteful thing I wish his mother had slapped out of him when he was young. "Well. I am having a bit of trouble…" Suddenly, Siddgeir got to his feet, trying to look impressive (I think). "Walk with me Madame," he announced, offering me his arm when he'd drawn up to where I still knelt.

Ugh.

Nevertheless, I rose and rested my elbow in the crook of his elbow. He led us out into the Falkreath sunlight, promenading for the benefit of his own ego and possibly so he can be seen with someone attractive and well-bred. Our housecarls followed along at a discreet distance.

One wrong move and Siddgeir loses a hand. If it's a really wrong move, Falkreath needs a new Jarl. I don't trust his oily manner… though I don't think I'm in any real trouble. I hope not—a murder would be an inconvenience, and I'm not sure how loyal this housecarl is to his master. But I know how Mjoll will react, so it will be quite a brawl if anything unsavory happens.

Most people would council forbearance on my part… but I don't think so.

"I had an arrangement with a certain party, but relations have… soured. They hole up in a place called Embershard Mine. I've been meaning to send the guard, as Embershard is, I think, a source of…" he frowned. "Ah, Nenya would know what actually comes out of the little hole. It doesn't matter. It's certainly beginning to affect the Hold's fiscal stability."

"It sounds as though you've a keen eye on your Hold's interests," I answered demurely.

"Indeed I do. Don't let the quaint exterior fool you—Falkreath has a wealth of possibilities and opportunities."

Which, I don't doubt, are being squandered by this selfish little toad. "It does have a certain charm to it." Hm. I wonder… "It's so charming, in fact… I wonder, is there room for new blood in Falkreath? A winter haven in such a locale would be a marvelous thing."

"Are you in the market for a second home?" Siddgeir asked, looking surprised, then greedy.

"As I said, this Hold is quite charming," I repeated, giving a show of considering the town, then the forest surrounding it. "And it would be pleasant to be away from Whiterun's bustle."

"So you're a Whiterun native?"

"Oh, _goodness_ no!" I answered. "But my business—and my partner—are both based in Whiterun so if I'm not on the road I'm probably there. I tell you, the war has been _excellent_ for those in the mercantile trade… and we're always looking to expand."

"We-ell…" Siddgeir made a show of ruminating. "There _is_ a little plot of land, quite picturesque as I believe, that lies in the hands of my family and with which I might be willing to part. I'll have Nenya show you the place. More business could only be an improvement—"

And more taxes, I don't doubt.

"—particularly in the form of such charming company."

By this point any personal interest I might have attracted was mercifully drowned by avarice. Thank goodness. This man makes my skin crawl in the most mediocre of unpleasant ways. I suppose I could lie and casually mention a husband… but then I'd have to produce him sooner or later and that causes all sorts of trouble and complications.

"You're too kind, my Jarl."

"Indeed. I hope you'll be with us for a few days?"

"Perhaps." By this time we'd returned to the longhouse.

"Nenya!" He waved a wrist, flicking his hand around in what might have been an attempt at an autocratic gesture. He lacked the grace and upbringing to pull it off properly.

The Altmer appeared a moment later. "My jarl?"

"Madame Leandra is interested in the Lakeview property. Do take her out this afternoon for a look. Madame." He inclined his head politely then withdrew to his throne.

Now how did he know my name? A cold thrill ran through my guts… and made me wonder if all this wasn't just a way to wring information out of me. I thought back, wondering how much compromising information was in the story I'd used. I worked out of Whiterun—that's not troublesome. But if he has my name… how? And why? And how could he link my face to it?

The Legion or the Thalmor could be on their way right this minute…

…but a fox doesn't lead a predator to her burrow by running at the first hint of trouble. She freezes and waits, then moves on softly.

"Lakeview?" Nenya asked dubiously.

"Is it not as fine a property as he makes out?" I asked innocently.

"Oh, no, it's quite fine… except for a few detractions. I'm having a bit of trouble…" Nenya blinked at me. "…but it can wait, I suppose. You said your name was… Leandra?"

"It is," I answered promptly. "And here I believed your Jarl wasn't attending when I told him."

Nenya's mouth pursed in a way suggesting she felt this was too often the case.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," I frowned. "What's the matter?"

"It's nothing, I'm sure—though perhaps I'd better speak to Siddgeir before we go. If you'll wait for me?"

By now my stomach felt full of cold water. "Of course. I'll wait for you at the Dead Man's Drink, shall I?"

"That would be splendid." Nenya gave me a reassuring smile, which gave her features, which fall into the naturally arch lines of an Altmer, a softer, friendlier quality. "It really is nothing, I'm sure."

It had better be.

I returned to the Dead Man's Drink with Mjoll—who hadn't heard anything in the conversation to disturb her—and packed my things for something to do. Mjoll hadn't actually unpacked; she was one of those for whom 'living out of a valise' is quite literal: things come out only as needed and go right back in when finished with.

Frowning into the mirror, I wondered if I truly stood out in a crowd and what I was being accused of… and by whom. Was it Endarie's murder in Solitude? Or had I been connected to Ondolemar in Markarth? Holds keep track of crime separately… but in these days Holds who share partisanship might be willing to extradite an offender.

And if there's a bounty on my head, which there's sure to be…

I need to talk to Wuunferth, or someone skilled in the School of Illusion. I don't want to change my face, just… maybe make me seem unremarkable.

A knock at the door made me flinch. "Yes?"

"It's Valga! Nenya's asking for you."

"Come in!" Valga opened the door as I bent to pull something out of my bag—in this case, a chemise being the first thing to hand. "Valga, has anyone come looking for me lately?"

"…there was a courier a few weeks ago, come to think of it," Valga said after a moment of thought, blinking. "Goodness, I'd forgotten about her."

"A courier?"

Valga shrugged. "I see so many faces Leandra, but I don't think I've seen her since. She simply thought I might remember if you'd passed through—but I told her I hadn't seen hide or hair of you for ages."

"I see. Thank you. I did speak to the Jarl about your difficulties… and I may be able to resolve them for you."

Valga frowned.

"Keep your friends close, Valga. Besides, it's it the Hold's best interests. We'll talk it over later," I assured her.

Valga sighed, mumbling something about talking not costing anything. Given what Siddgeir wants, I think her reaction is quite reasonable. She's not going to like it when we finally talk it over.

Nenya met me in the common room, with several pieces of paper in her hand. Outside were several guards wearing Falkreath's rich blue wraps over their armor, the Hold's stag emblazoned on their shields. I couldn't help noticing that they looked rather shabby compared to guardsmen in other Holds.

"You'll forgive the escort, but… well, I'll explain it later." Nenya patted my shoulder hesitantly before leading us over to a pair of horses, onto one of which she climbed before indicating I should mount the other.

The soldiers with us walked, and Mjoll walked with them. They fell into quiet conversation before long.

Once we were out of Falkreath proper, Nenya sighed. "Firstly, I want to apologize for Siddgeir's behavior. He's been known to put his carts before his horses and it never goes well for him."

"I'm afraid I'm still in the dark… though I'm starting to worry."

"It's nothing. Merely a supplicant who approached the Jarl. Here," Nenya handed me a paper.

It was a sketch of me but not particularly well-done. It was good enough for someone to look at it and look at me and see a vague sort of semblance. "I'm sure I don't know what this is about. Am I being accused of something?"

"Not at all," Nenya answered, and I couldn't see any deception or duplicity in her face, nor hear any in her tone. "I accepted it from a courier who wished to speak to Siddgeir about the lady in the picture."

I need to leave. I don't feel safe, here. Turning the image over, I found a note on the back.

 _To the Jarl of Falkreath,_

 _I am writing you, my lord, in connection with a woman by name of Leandra Ashlynn who may have come through your Hold. I bear an important message from her family and have had no luck in discovering her whereabouts. It is imperative that she be found and the message conveyed. Please find accompanying a gift of 500s.—another 500s., as a sign of gratitude, to be offered if she can be found._

 _Should she be found, my itinerary is as follows:_

I ignored the itinerary for a moment, squinting at the handwriting which I didn't recognize.

But I had an itinerary, which I took a moment to memorize—not difficult, as it imitated the Province-wide trade route Marcus used to maintain—and a courier would know me by face. If I time things right, I can be back in Windhelm before this courier arrives. If she speaks to the Jarl, he'll probably summon me to or send the courier along. I'll let Jorleif know, just in case.

"Well, this has nothing to do with me," I said simply, handing the paper over. It didn't have any seals or insignias on it, and no signature which wasn't surprising. Couriers don't sign documents, they just deliver them—or, as in this case, leave information with regards to the addressee of the message they need to deliver. "What has to do with me is this Lakeview property."

Nenya nodded approvingly. "It is a lovely property… though there are a few issues with it. Siddgeir would rather I not mention those, but really…" she shook her head. "I believe in being level with someone buying such an expensive piece of property."

"You seem to be the voice of fairness in the Jarl's court."

Nenya's smile remained diplomatically neutral, which told me I'd voiced the truth, but modesty and her position forbade her agreeing with me out loud. "There has been trouble with the ruins in Lake Ilinalta, though a local band of adventurers cleaned it out last year. No trouble since, but where you've had strangeness or unnaturalness it's not impossible for more to come of it. Also, the next-nearest property is a place called Pinewatch. No one's sure if it's inhabited or not—sometimes it seems to be, but other times… no one."

Not a good sign.

"Hence why I prefer to bring a guard. There are rumors…" Nenya halted, chewed her lip, then continued as if her conscience dogged her regardless of what would make the Jarl happy. "There are rumors that the sometimes-inhabitants are engaged in less than savory dealings… but the one time the Watch had reason to investigate nothing incriminating was found. Make of that what you will."

We eventually reached Lakeview—which lived up to its name. A green and shady place, with a beautiful view of Lake Ilinalta. I could imagine it being a prime place for children to play— _if_ my concerns about Pinewatch weren't what they were. The place, which we had to pass, seemed quiescent enough. Its shabby appearance gave it the look of an untenanted home.

Someone, at some point, had begun building on Lakeview. The skeleton for a rather large ground floor, troubled by its abandonment but which looked fairly sound, rose out of the ground exactly where I would have put a house. "The last tenant's work?"

"Indeed. The last tenant was living here—or, rather, over there," she indicated a small stable, which I could imagine being used as temporary shelter, "and complained about the rowdiness of the crowd at Pinewatch. When we found absolutely nothing amiss with Pinewatch, the tenant became nervous. Then the lights at the lake started. When Siddgeir wouldn't send guards to look into it, the tenant 'gifted' the place back to the Jarl and took himself off."

Knowing Siddgeir as I did—which, I'll admit, was superficially—and knowing about the problem that had taken itself to Embershard Mine… I could imagine him selling a property then scaring the tenant off of it only to sell it again. Still, the house had a good start, and it was early in the year. I don't think a house could be finished before Ulfric wants Whiterun, but with a good start it would still be a good place to stash Balgruuf's children.

If I can find or make assurance that Pinewatch will not be a problem. If an unsavory sort lives there, I don't like the idea of having important components to a plan near them. But if I'm sending a group of the lads to clear out Embershard, and since this place is remote… perhaps they can allay my concerns.

I'll send Geirlund. He has a raging hate for bandits of all forms. He'll get it done as quickly and thoroughly as I would go through a Thalmor nest.

"I'm almost afraid to ask what the Jarl would want for such a lovely property."

"That would depend entirely on what he was offered," Nenya sighed.

"I _beg_ your pardon?" I demanded sharply.

Nenya blinked, dragged out of reverie. For a moment she looked offended, then what she'd said caught up with her, her golden features morphing into distressed embarassment. "Oh, dear… I didn't mean it _that_ way. My deepest apologies… truly, it wasn't my intention to offend you or imply anything."

I gave a tense laugh. "Pardon me for assuming you did… but your Jarl. He does seem the sort."

Nenya surprised me by snorting. "He does. Walk with me?"

I followed along at her elbow until we stood some way from Mjoll and the guards, watching the lake. "You're a good friend of Valga's?" Nenya asked bluntly.

"I certainly try to be, though I don't see her as often as I would like."

Nenya studied me. "If you can help her, please do it." The request was so unvarnished it caught me off guard. I studied Nenya's slanting features and golden eyes. "I… because of your inquiries on her behalf, I'll confide in you…" and she didn't look as though she wanted to, but rather that she was impelled to because I was someone who might be able to do _something_. "Listen, I manage Siddgeir's books. The only reason he thinks Valga is paying what he requires from her is because I let him. But I can't hide the truth within his meddling forever. He'll tax her out of business out of spite and then…" she waved irritably. "There's no sense in something like that. I've tried to tell him, but he won't hear it."

"How did he inherit the post when he's such a fool?" 

Nenya's faced darkened, her lips pursing as she decided how she wanted to address the element when it involved speaking badly of the jarl—a good trait in a steward. "The political machinations of smarter people. I served his uncle, Dengeir, when he first came to power. He was a good Jarl once, but war changes men and in Dengeir's case not for the better. I…" She studied me carefully. "I fear for Falkreath's future. I've lived here too long to want to live somewhere else. Restoring operations of the Dead Man's Drink approaching something equitable won't fix everything, but it will help." Then, biting her lip. "If you can help Valga, if you can get her off Siddgeir's list of whom to antagonize… I will ensure that Lakeview passes into your hands—or those of a custodian."

"Can you do that?" I asked, shocked. It suggested Valga was in more trouble than I thought she was if the steward was willing to fudge the running of the Jarl's household to deliver a prime piece of property into the hands of the person who could fix this one issue—or maybe string of two or three. Either great distress, great friendship, or both.

"Siddgeir would let a total stranger buy land in Falkreath if that stranger either paid well or performed some petty service for him," Nenya confided quietly. "So it's correct because of precedent to reward someone who provides a true and proper service with a reward to match the deed."

"Is _that_ why no one knows anything about Pinewatch?" Which makes total sense. If the place was untenanted, then Siddgeir, as far as I understood his character, would clean the place out and then seize it for the Hold and make some money off it.

But he hasn't. That suggests unpleasant explanations.

Nenya nodded once. "Purchased by a newcomer who did Aedra-know-what for him. If you can find ways and means, so can I."

"And if I can't take credit for it? I mean, can you imagine me sneaking into a mine to kill a man? Or several men?"

Nenya joined me in chuckling at this. "Not hardly. But I don't think you'd be asking how you could help if you didn't think you could make something happen."

"Like knows like, I take it?"

"I hope so."

I studied Nenya again, the lines of concern and stress around her eyes, the way she had of pursing her lips as if she was so accustomed to biting back things she'd like to say that she did it without thinking when silence fell. "I would help Valga even without your assurances."

"I know. That's why I made them. Falkreath isn't Riften, yet."


	28. Chapter 28

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

Mjoll and I arrived at Hjerim to find the front room full of dragon teeth, scales, claws and small bones. The smallest pieces had been stuffed into the kinds of crates one sees at the marketplace for fruit and vegetables with what looked like a mulish insistence on neatness. Given the material, it was a feat of organization.

"Got some friends hunting dragons, eh?" Mjoll asked dryly, immediately walking up to a crate and pulling out a claw, comparing its size to that of her hand. "What a monster." She dropped the claw back into the crate.

My jaw actually dropped, remembering the request I'd sent out about dragon… leftovers. I'd put Ralof in charge of that task, since he'd been on-hand to assign to it. Apparently I'd been taken more than seriously, for it looked like as much as a six-man unit (or a large wagon requisitioned by one) could carry. My brain ticked as I figured how much much-needed money I was looking at. I'll have to control the flow of material or crash the market. Maybe set up someone in my employ as a purveyor of dragon products. I know smiths would be eager to get their hands on such things.

I examined one of the teeth, easily as big as my hand and wondered whether good arrowheads could be crafted from such a medium. There was a rather remarkable fletcher in Solitude who could probably have done it. I need someone who can work in Solitude, not just copies of the _Solitude Courier_.

"It's such a mess," Svana said, coming in and wiping floury hands on a towel. "I just didn't know where to _put_ it all. Also, you have messages…" She hurried upstairs and returned with a fistful of letters, one of which she shuffled to the top. "This—well, these—were left with the delivery of bones."

It was a brief note, little more than a scribbled 'dead dragons hereabouts—asked around, others will send more as possible' on a map of Eastmarch with several marks indicating two other 'hereabouts.'

That explained the profusion of dragonbone and dragon teeth. The 'these' she mentioned were little notes from the various unit leaders who had contributed to the collection, each as neatly written as an inventory should be. "Lovely." I'll be writing letters tonight. I _know_ Adrianne in Whiterun will want as many as she can afford; I'll gift some to Nurelion, and Arcadia—alchemists being what they are—and, yes, Wuunferth who can do something unholy (and I mean that with fondness) to them…

…no. I'll see if he can't create or obtain from his connections something to make me less noticeable when I'm working. And barring that…

"Aerin," I called, bringing him out of his earnest conversation with Mjoll. "Have I had any other shipments come in while I was away?"

"I put them all down in the cellar," Aerin answered.

"And you haven't had any trouble with the locals?"

"…not particularly," he answered.

I frowned at him, wanting a yes or no answer. If the answer is no, so much the better; if the answer is yes… then we have another problem I need to attend.

Aerin chuckled at this. "No need to look so grim, I wasn't evading. I haven't had any trouble. Nor Svana, for that matter."

"Good." It wasn't Svana I worried about.

I shuffled the papers and found one in an unpracticed hand which bore Svana's name at the bottom and was a list of the things she'd heard while managing my 'charity.' I was glad she had the sense to write it down—and date each entry. Another was from Marcurio containing an update on his situation (with the heavy implication that payment for the retention of services would be most appreciated at the beginning of the month).

"Has there been anyone asking about me lately?"

"Not at all, my lady," Svana answered promptly.

"Not that I've heard—are you expecting someone?" Aerin asked.

"There's a courier been running around the Province with a message from my family—so she says. I know she'll be in Eastmarch soon." And that worries me. I don't believe this guff about a message from my family—we're more than simply 'on the outs,' I think—but it would take some guts on the part of an Imperial or Thalmor agent to want to be obvious about looking for me in Windhelm. "If she should make an appearance, I'd like to speak to her—if I'm not home and if possible, have her wait here until I come back."

I won't live looking over my shoulder if I know what to look for.

-L-

The main hall of the Palace of the Kings was as objectionable as ever. I didn't know how to bring it to Ulfric's attention that the first impression he's trying to make—assuming he knows he's supposed to make one and that first impressions are lasting impressions—isn't a favorable one. I'm not suggesting anything ridiculously ornate, but the Blue Palace's audience hall is an austere room, or would be if not for banners and little decorative touches to soften the effect.

I have the feeling that if a woman brings up décor the reaction will be in response to clichés on the subject. I'm not asking to cover the floor in marble or hand-carve the stonework in the wall (although plaster with a mural on it wouldn't go amiss). I'd simply like to see the place presented as being on a creditable level.

I mothballed the idea as I searched the room for Ulfric. The time had come to explain my plans for taking Whiterun, not necessarily bloodlessly but with less trouble than a siege would take. I had almost everything in place, especially with the wealth of dragon bits I was ready to begin moving. A wagonload to Whiterun will easily justify my next trip.

"Where is his lordship?" I asked, catching the nearest house servant.

"In his quarters, I think, my Thane," the boy, just into his teens, answered promptly.

"Very well. As soon as you can, let him know that I await his indulgence. I'll be in the strategy room." With that, I veered off and entered the small chamber, running over the salient points of my plan with eyes half-closed, one hand resting cagelike over Whiterun. I'll need to ensure Ysolda isn't there—more for her protection than anything else. And when she gets back, she'll have some protection if some of the narrow-mindedness in Windhelm tries to spread. My name should carry some weight, Thane that I am.

I was there for about a quarter of an hour before the door opened to reveal Ulfric quite obviously ready to go outside.

Before he could speak I smiled faintly and held up the pin for Whiterun with its little yellow flag and stuck it into the map.

Ulfric's brow clouded and I nearly laughed—it was a look I'd seen before, that of a lad being told he couldn't go outside to play when he was quite eager to do so.

"I can wait, my lord," I answered. "There's plenty to do and for once it isn't snowing."

"Can you ride?" Ulfric asked simply.

-L-

I had the impression Ulfric was venting a particularly bad bout of stir-craziness. The roads would be unpleasant to walk, but the shaggy horses had less trouble. I rode in silence, keeping pace with him until he finally checked his horse's pace and heaved a heavy sigh, his breath billowing as a white cloud.

I'd left Mjoll and Ulfric left Galmar, which made our entourage simple soldiers pulled from the garrison.

"You have Whiterun."

"I have enough of a plan that sharing it will not waste your time, my lord."

"Good. Let's hear it."

"Sieges are drawn out and messy. My proposition is to cripple Balgruuf early and have him end the hostilities himself."

Ulfric looked away from the road, the now already turned up from our outward progress, to frown at me. "He wouldn't. He's too damn stubborn."

"He will if he thinks I'll slit his children's throats. Either he'll try to smuggle them out of Whiterun before he has to close the city, or he'll keep them secure in the palace. But as I've already demonstrated, a palace is not impregnable. Especially when other things are on the inhabitants' minds."

I knew the suggestion troubled him. It's not something one often hears from a woman, the threatening and possibly ending of a child's life. I'd do it… but I'd rather not. Hostages are tricky, but it isn't as if Balgruuf is in a position to replace them—their mother whom he so truly loved is dead. They're all he has of her.

"That's… unexpected."

"This is war, my lord. And this is my solution—assuming Balgruuf's better sense doesn't prevail."

"You couldn't drive a wedge between him and the Legion?"

"It would be found out and make more trouble than it's worth. I did consider it. Shall I continue, or is this a plan you reject? Consider," I added hastily, "that my way reduces the time in which your brothers and several of my friends can take injury or be killed."

Ulfric laughed at this, but his look was mildly reproving. "I've fought wars before. They're rarely pleasant. And I reject nothing as I haven't heard the rest of this plan of yours."

Good man.

"The plan requires agents inside Whiterun before Balgruuf closes the city. Vignar is looking for people willing to perform the ugly necessity if Balgruuf proves reticent beyond what I expect. If he doesn't find them, then I'll find them among your soldiers. It is also necessary that I be there in person to make the negotiations."

"You'd also make a valuable hostage," Ulfric frowned.

"If I'm captured, perhaps. But I have business in Whiterun so my coming and going won't be questioned. If I'm in the city when it closes… so much the worse for me. I and my handpicked men will slip into Dragonsreach and find a way to drug the children. They won't be trouble that way and won't be unduly terrified out of their wits. They will be removed to a place of safety separate from their father. Their wellbeing will be the club over Balgruuf's head, and by allowing him correspondence with them he can keep himself assured of their situation."

"It would be easier to kill him." But Ulfric didn't sound thrilled with the idea.

"That would not only be unwise, it would be wasteful. Balgruuf is close with the Dragonborn and she strikes me as the kind of woman who would take it badly amiss if anything terrible happened to Balgruuf. When I say 'amiss' I mean complicating the war—perhaps even going so far as to join the Empire. Her support is a symbol and to have her set her face against you is going to drive off those partisans who believe in ideals. Keeping Balgruuf safely in Windhelm—under little more than house arrest—shows consideration for her."

Ulfric nodded, eyebrows contracting as he chewed this over.

"I have a place in mind to send the children and I have keepers in mind—a pair of Whiterun natives. Perhaps you are aware of the Grey-Mane versus Battle-Born feud in Whiterun?"

He nodded.

"Jon Battle-Born and Olfina Grey-Mane are lovers kept apart by their families. Going against their families and staying in Whiterun isn't an option for them, but one doesn't just run away and live on love. My proposal is to offer them an exchange: a safe place where they can live and love in peace, where they will be provided for because I intend to send my 'brothers and sister' to that place to keep them away from the war. Who would they tell where the children are, unwelcome in Whiterun as they will be until their families grow up?"

"Where would you send them?"

I shifted in the saddle. "Not forgetting all the respect I hold for you, my jarl—"

Ulfric snorted. "Spare me the empty pleasantries."

"Then I shall begin again: nor forgetting the respect I hold for you, my jarl, I would prefer to keep that information to myself. Holding a club tempts one to use it, and I would not wish you to reduce yourself to using the club more often than the plan calls for."

I may not like him, I may not share his views and ideals, but I do respect Ulfric. He's a capable leader and I can see glimpses of what makes him a capable general. It's more than I felt when I first arrived. Then again… I would probably come to respect anyone who put me in a position to wage my own war. It's tedious that I have to drive this one first, but patience is a virtue.

And it gives me time to ensure the first major blow I orchestrate against the Thalmor is something impossible to ignore. Forcing them out of Markarth means the only bulwark they have is Solitude—unless they deign to appropriate one or more of the ruined forts dotted around Skyrim. More angry, touchy Thalmor in Solitude will cause tension and they'll find themselves in a climate moving towards that of Markarth currently. They'll try to stop it and, if I know anything about 'human' nature, they'll make it worse. And if I know anything about human nature, the people of Solitude will resent this more and faster than anywhere else, since they're a bastion of pro-Empire loyalty.

"Tell me about the place you intend to place them," Ulfric said flatly. I could tell he didn't like the answer but however much he didn't like it he wasn't going to deny that I had a point.

"It's a fine place, once I acquire it—but my next business trip to Whiterun will put me in good stead for that. It's quiet, well away from the nearest town and not in Eastmarch. If I had siblings I wanted to keep safe, I would put them there. There's space to play. And it's possible to live in a partially-finished home while the last of it is being constructed—it will go more quickly if I can dispatch a group of the lads to hasten the project."

"They're your units."

"Thank you, my lord." That does make life easier. I'm sure there's an architect somewhere whom I can consult.

"So this is going to take time," Ulfric sighed.

"So will a siege," I answered. "The only difference is where the time is spent. And I would really rather limit the time my lads spend within range of Whiterun's archers. They are rather good."

"Proceed with the plan, then. I'll inform Galmar of it and have him prepare for a traditional approach. Just in case."

"I appreciate just in case, my lord. I could be wrong, in which case the plan fails." I teetered on telling him I was ready to start the process of releasing Madanach, but decided not to. The first stint of my agent in Cidhna Mine is just to pan the waters. And no one questions a repeat-offender—it's just one more in the labor force, more silver into the owner's coffers.

"But you don't think it will."

"I don't think it will fail, no."

Ulfric nodded. "Work quickly. They year's wearing on."

So it is. And that's a problem here in Skyrim.

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk)

29 First Seed

Geirlund,

Your unit has been activated for special duty. Set aside your Stormcloak identifiers, as I'm sending you to Falkreath.

A woman named Valga Vinicia is having a spot of trouble with the Jarl and I need him to loosen his grip on her throat. Falkreath has a mine—Embershard—in which a pack of bandits has holed up. The Jarl wants them wiped out, and I don't doubt they'll be mischief for Falkreath sooner or later.

Strip the bandits and approach Bolund. He and his brother own Grey Pine goods—or, rather, they run it for Siddgeir. Bolund isn't happy about the Imperial presence, and is likely to cut better deals with Nords that Solaf is. Reimburse yourselves as necessary from the spoils; hold the rest for the next part of this assignment.

Once the Embershard portion of the mission has concluded you will personally approach Nenya, Falkreath's steward. Give her my regards and tell her I sent you and that the situation with Embershard is under control—show her the result if she wishes. She will open negotiations for a property in which I'm interested. Use the message hawk so I remain part of the negotiations.

While you are negotiating, send a reliable man and however much of your unit you wish to scout the locations on the enclosed map. I want opinions on the suitability of these locations for forward operating bases to be used in future. Should your man/men come across better locations, have them marked and a report drafted as to the benefits of using such locations. I trust your man's eye as a soldier.

I will convey additional instructions as the situation unfolds.

Leandra Grey

-L-

(Delivered by Stormcloak courier)

29 First Seed

Vidrald:

Your unit has been activated for special duty. Set aside your Stormcloak identifiers, as I'm sending you to Whiterun.

Upon arrival in the city's vicinity, send one of your Whiterun non-natives to Arcadia's cauldron and ask her for a dozen medium number three vials.

Please find on the enclosed map a location known as the Sleeping Tree. At this location you will find a tree with a spigot in it (and possibly giants or some other monstrosity). Collect as much of the sap as you safely can—and, if possible, ascertain the fate of one Orismer mercenary, name of Ulag—then return to Whiterun. Send one of your non-Whiterun natives into the city with six of the vials, to be delivered to my business partner Ysolda—please do not mention my involvement. She will pay a sum of 150s. per vial. If Ulag's fate has been discovered, inform her.

Reimburse yourselves for the expense of the vials and any medical supplies needed. Have one of your men bring the sap and the rest of the money back to Windhelm. The remaining men shall investigate locations marked on the enclosed map, vetting them for possible use of forward operating camps. Furthermore, investigate the major roads leading from Markarth and Solitude. Consider and forward to me by message hawk the likelihood of a blockade or the ease of men harassing an incoming force.

I will convey additional instructions as the situation unfolds.

Leandra Grey

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk)

29 First Seed

Avulstein:

Return to Windhelm immediately.

Look to your men or your acquaintances within the army. I need a handful of dedicated men for an exceptionally dangerous venture. Discretion and extraordinary courage will be required, details forthcoming face-to-face.

Leandra Grey

P.S: I will be traveling through Whiterun soon. Write to your mother.

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk)

29 First Seed

Thorald:

Return to Windhelm immediately.

Look to your men or your acquaintances within the army. I need a handful of dedicated men for an exceptionally dangerous venture. Discretion and extraordinary courage will be required, details forthcoming face-to-face.

Leandra Grey

P.S: I will be traveling through Whiterun soon. Write to your mother.

-L-

(Delivered by courier)

29 First Seed

To my dear Ysolda,

I've hit _such_ a windfall! I met with some adventurer-types who have made something of a name for themselves as dragon hunters and obtained the locations of some of the corpses of these beasts. I will be bringing a shipment of dragon bits (there _has_ to be a better name for them) to Whiterun within the next fortnight—sooner rather than later. Could you put word around and generate some excitement? I know Adrianne will want as much as she can afford.

Yours,

Leandra

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk)

3 First Seed

Dear Leandra,

Dragonbone? Adrianne's eyes lit up like you wouldn't believe. I think Arcadia might be interested. Farengar definitely is—and Belethor is quite put out. According to that shyster, you can't get that sort of thing for love or money. He even went so far as to make a loud and obnoxious monologue about it at the Bannered Mare. Let's prove him wrong, that it really does just take the right contacts.

Looking forward to seeing you soon,

Ysolda

-L-

Avulstein and Thorald set speed records for getting back to Windhelm. Each had two men—well, one of the candidates was a woman—with him, and Thorald had pulled a friend of his from the garrison. We met at Hjerim, though I don't doubt I could have asked to borrow Ulfric's strategy room. Nevertheless, the matter was sensitive, and I didn't want to deal with too many prying ears.

Mjoll had apparently caught on to me, that much of my business was of the secretive variety and that I'd been careful to keep her at arm's reach of it, casually asked whether she needed to make herself scarce. For a few moments I worried that the secretive nature might arouse disapproval or do something to alienate her—why do I need to hide it, that kind of question.

I misjudged her in this respect. Not being partisan, who I work with is my job and I haven't asked her to do or support anything questionable—she told me as much. Furthermore, which upset me more than it should have, she patted my shoulder and told me she trusted my character before she snatched up Aerin and dragged him to Candlehearth for a drink.

I shook myself, forcing the conversation to the back of my mind (and hoping it would get lost in the shuffle of ideas usually back there). "I need a brave and dedicated man for a delicate operation involving Cidhna Mine," I said, looking at the five faces—I'd asked Thorald and Avulstein not to sit in on the meeting, since the fewer people who know about it the better. And moreover, I'll need more than one operative for this at some point, so while five is too many for my liking I may be glad of that many later. "I'm also sending someone to Markarth for other reasons. I need to know the lay of the land there. I may also need an agent for a separate assignment—information gathering, that sort of thing."

One of the men shifted, then held up a hand as if unsure how to indicate he had something to contribute. When I gave him my attention, "I'm from Markarth, my Thane. Never said why I left, just packed up, picked up, and off I went."

"So no one would question you coming back?" I frowned. A native would be useful.

"I wouldn't think so. Most'd figure my contract had run out. I was a sellsword. Pretty good one, too," he added with the off-handed thoughtfulness of those truly aware of their own abilities and value.

"What's your name?"

"Vorstag, my Thane."

"I should like to discuss the second operation with you, Vorstag. A native of Markarth would be invaluable for that—you know the people."

He nodded, then stepped to the side, leaving the other four.

"No takers for the Cidhna Mine mission?" I made my tone casual, as non-judgmental as I could make it. It's not a mission critical to success in the Reach, and I can hardly blame them for it. No one escapes Cidhna mine.

Each face was etched with the kind of consideration born of being squeezed between two ideas: courage in the face of the unpleasant versus the unpleasant which might be worse than imagined.

"I'll do it." The voice that piped up was a lad standing to the back of the group, about eighteen or nineteen, skinny and a little nervous-looking. The youngest and smallest, he looked startled by his own courage.

"Are you certain? No one will think less of you—it's an unsavory operation."

The lad shifted. "I'm not much of a fighter, but it sounds like that's not something you want," he admitted. "I'll do it. Whatever it is."

I didn't like the idea of sending this little scrap of humanity into a task such as this. However, Avulstein wouldn't have sent him to me if he didn't have confidence that the lad could handle whatever was dished out—and both Avulstein's and Thorald's choices suggested they were aware that this wasn't something just any fighter could handle.

"Very well. Your name?"

"Ingmar, my Thane."

"Thank you, gentlemen, lady. Ingmar, if you and Vorstag would remain?" I showed the others out. "Now, let us discuss the intricacies. May I offer you a drink?"

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk)

5 Rain's Hand

Dead Man's Drink, Falkreath

To Lady Grey,

My contract in Falkreath has concluded satisfactorily. I took the lads through Embershard, which had been overrun by unsavory sorts. If anyone survived it was because they weren't there—I left two of the lads to keep an eye on the place in case there were survivors. Please find enclosed a note from your friend Valga, who prevailed upon me to send it along. I should note that Valga makes the most excellent bread I've ever had the pleasure of eating.

The steward also encloses a note for you.

Yours,

Geirlund

-L-

(Appended to Geirlund's letter, delivered by message hawk)

5 Rain's Hand

Dead Man's Drink, Falkreath

Dear Leandra—

Imagine my surprise when your lads showed up, polite as you please and so unexpectedly! The next morning Geirlund presents himself and says I'm to take a goodwill tithe to the Jarl and tell him his bandit problem has been solved—and please take all the credit, as it's my troubles he's here to fix. Such a charming lad. He thinks I can safely release my hired muscle, and I'm inclined to trust his opinion on the matter.

I won't lie, I don't think Siddgeir has stopped being silly, but Nenya must have been softening him up because he's not acting silly. She brought me a tax reprieve that same afternoon. With a little steady business, I think affairs will more than right themselves—I may be able to hire Tekla away after all. Keep our fingers crossed.

I want to thank you again, dear, for all your help. It was unexpected, and I'm very grateful. I'll ask Geirlund to leave me your address; if there's anything I can ever do for you—because I don't doubt hiring Geirlund and his lads was a dent in your purse—let me know.

Your friend,

Valga Vinicia

-L-

(Appended to Geirlund's letter, delivered by message hawk. Wax seal of Falkreath still intact.)

Rain's Hand 5

From the Court of Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath

To Madame Leandra Grey—or so your proxy called you,

Being in receipt of service as agreed upon, the property of Lakeview has come onto the market and is being held for you. I'm afraid the best I can do is to hold it and offer a reduced price of purchase—2,360s. I know I hinted otherwise, but I'm afraid the Jarl has started frowning at his books again with the mine ready to reopen and begin producing again. You should be aware, however, that the price listed above is half the last price paid and less the 'tithe' your proxy offered. Again, I do beg your pardon; I know it looks as though I was less than honest with you, but judge for yourself if I haven't done all that could be done.

Yours sincerely,

Steward Nenya, on behalf of Jarl Siddgeir

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk)

7 Rain's Hand

House Grey-Mane, Whiterun

Cousin Geirlund,

Your letter made me smile—such cleverness on your part. Please give Nenya any of the remaining funds from the raid on Embershard for Lakeview.

That part of your unit that remains to you is to remove itself to the property known as Lakeview. Some little way south is a dilapidated shack known as Pinewatch. There is reason to believe more bandits—possibly having some connection to those squatting in Embershard Mine—have either entrenched themselves or simply frequent the place. Investigate and, if possible, exterminate them. Take your time; Lakeview is important to me. Proceeds from the raid shall go to expenses incurred by your unit. The rest are to be given to steward Nenya as payment towards obtaining Lakeview.

Yours,

Lady Grey

P.S. How are you at building a house, or do you know anyone in that profession?


	29. Chapter 29

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

"My lady?" Svana tapped at the open door of my room.

I looked up from the papers on my desk, pinching the bridge of my nose. I'd woken up with a headache, which Svana had jumped on with more warm willow bark tea than I thought it possible to find in Eastmarch. I blamed it on the upcoming trip to Whiterun. I had a linchpin in the works and wasn't sure it wouldn't shear off before I could use it… so to speak.

Or maybe it was knowing I had some courier or other of unknown motives slinging septims around like feed in chicken yard in search of my person.

"Yes, Svana?"

"You've a visitor. Master Wuunferth."

I blinked. "I beg your pardon?" It was so unlikely that I began to wonder if I shouldn't do as Svana suggested and try to sleep the headache off.

"Master Wuunferth is downstairs. He'd like a word with you," Svana repeated patiently.

I got up and followed her downstairs to find Wuunferth examining the main room, still wearing his heavy hooded black cloak, trimmed with thick silver fur. He carried the archetypal staff in one hand, a thing made of surprisingly pale wood and set with a fist-sized black stone off of whose facets the lights glittered, making it look like a chunk of starry night.

"This is unexpected."

"Isn't it though?" he asked, still standing on the mat so as not to track mud everywhere. "I've heard you've received a delivery of dragon… parts."

"I have," I said, trying not to chuckle at his own groping for words to describe the shipment. "I take it you're interested?"

"Curious is more like. If it gets Nurelion that excited, it's worth having a piece or two in the lab. You never know—some of my books are old. Maybe one of the old practitioners had a use for them."

"They do seem to have many applications, even without the ancient practitioners," I agreed.

Wuunferth frowned at me. "What do you want for a piece of each: tooth, claw, bone?"

I considered, then smiled. "Svana," I gestured her to go back to the kitchen, which she did, before moving to stand close to Wuunferth. "I need something to make me less memorable."

"Mouse-brown hair and fair eyes are hardly the basis of breathtaking beauty. I think you're fine there."

I won't argue that, even if feminine pride recoiled from the remark. I happen to have been told over the years I'm rather pretty. So hearing this old codger who embraces not women but _books_ , who kisses nothing but the rim of a wine glass, made me grimace. "Yes, but I sometimes need to ask awkward questions—awkward if I'm remembered as having asked them. The Grey Fox had the Cowl of Nocturnal. I want something similar."

"Maybe you should find Nocturnal's closest Shrine and ask her about it."

"But I'm asking you, clever fellow that you are."

"Don't butter me, girl. It's wasted effort." Wuunferth sighed, rolling his eyes skyward—a peculiar habit of his, as if he expected answers to come tumbling down like a landslide—then shrugged. "I might be able to figure something out."

"I have complete faith in you."

Wuunferth snorted.

And to prove the truth of my words, for I do have faith in him or, rather, in his pride in his work. "Would you like to take your payment now?"

Wuunferth froze, then glanced over his shoulder at me. For a moment he debated, then toed off his boots. "I think so, yes."

He doesn't like being indebted, which means he'll finish my project as quickly as possible while maintaining the high degree of workmanship he expects of himself. He must be truly curious, or know something he's not willing to admit to.

That's fine: magic isn't my specialty, since I can't do it.

-L-

The courier caught up with me as I was finishing the plans for my next trip to Whiterun—a trip that was mostly finalizing details and carting Ysolda the promised load of dragon products. Avulstein was staying in Windhelm, but his unit was coming with me to ensure the wagon got safely where it needed to be. One never knows what dangers the road may pose and I wasn't about to tempt fate.

"My lady?" Svana appeared at the door, her arms full of dry laundry, which she lay out on the bed. "There's a courier asking for you."

My stomach clenched at these words. "Where is Aerin?"

"Squaring the ledger, I think. He's in his workspace, at least," Svana answered.

"And Mjoll?"

"Candlehearth," came the prompt answer. "She looked grim, so I didn't ask any questions." Not that she would have, even if she'd thought to ask.

"Very well. Stay here."

"My lady?" Svana faltered, looking worried.

"Stay here. If I need you I'll call." With that, I left her, still looking worried, and went downstairs.

The courier stood on the mats, a traveling coat as opposed to a cloak wrapped around her soft form. She was tall, carried herself well (even if she sagged a little with weariness). Marked as a courier belonging to the Solitude mercantile circle, I recognized her as anything but.

And it shocked me that she should be here at all.

Instead of giving way to my muddled thoughts, I shoved everything aside except the mundane courtesies. "Svana!" Starting with reassuring the girl that nothing horrible had happened.

Svana appeared a moment later as the 'courier' and I regarded one another.

"Please start a pot of tea." Then, still trying to shake off the shock, to my guest, "If you don't mind, I should like to have this conversation in my office."

"Of course." The woman slipped her boots off, handed her coat to Svana and followed me upstairs.

Once standing behind my desk, I leaned on the sturdy wood. "What do you want, Mother?" Because it _was_ Mother, taking off her gloves and examining the painted screen blocking view of my bed and dressing table with bland interest. It was awkward, sometimes, having my office and my bedroom in the same space. Fortunately, it was a large room to begin with.

She was just as I remembered, her hair still mostly brown shot with silver, her bright green eyes alert and perceptive. The roses had faded from her cheeks, however, and there were more lines in her soft face. Grief and trouble combined, I expect.

"I've been looking for you, of course," she answered.

"Do sit," I indicated the chair by the door—the only out-of-the-way place I could put it.

She took the chair and did just that, sighing at being off her feet. "So, you really made it to Windhelm. And have done well for yourself." The relief in her voice was palpable.

"I've managed to avoid Marcus' career advice, yes," I answered grimly.

Mother flinched. "He shouldn't have said such a thing."

Well, he did. "Let me be clear: I'm not going back to Solitude. You couldn't _pay_ me to go back there." Except in the company of an army.

"I wouldn't ask you to," came the patient answer. "I'm not certain I'm going back myself."

I said nothing, but caught my lip between my teeth. That suggests her and Marcus' marriage is falling apart. Well it might, the family having lost not one but both daughters. "I hope you haven't been troubled by any… unpleasantness… because of Lucinda and me?"

"There was a time of discomfort, but that was months ago. The business isn't doing so well without the two of you."

Good. The vindictive thought made me wince, but I didn't take it back. Not even in my own mind. It was petty, but I wished Marcus all sorts of trouble… though I regret that Mother might have to partake of it.

We fell into silence. "So, what have you been up to?" she finally asked, with the air of someone making conversation but only laboriously.

"I'm a Thane of Eastmarch," I answered with a shrug, "having performed meritorious service. I also co-operate a business out of Whiterun."

"Yes, I heard about that—it's how I learned I'd find you in Windhelm if you weren't on business," Mother agreed. "I was glad to hear it."

"I've been fortunate since leaving Solitude."

"So I see." But she wasn't paying attention to my room—not quite as well-furnished as I would have liked—but at me. Her eyes roved over the lines of my face that created a perfectly neutral expression. "I've missed you."

I nodded. "I can honestly return the sentiment." The words came out quietly, accompanied by a drop of my gaze from her face to my desk. It was true, but not something I'd considered. She'd been so far away in Solitude. "You said you weren't certain you were going back."

"Yes. This trip… it's been time for me to think, as well as to look for you."

I looked up at this, to find her expression closed off, stonily proud with eyelids half lowered.

Divorce isn't common in Skyrim and while more common elsewhere it's particularly frowned upon in the Imperial Province. I will admit I was a bit surprised to hear, even by inference, that she was considering such a thing. The usual solution is to simply cohabitate and keep separate quarters. It avoids scandal and marriage is as much for a helpmate as anything else.

Mother got to her feet, still studying me. "I've heard you're a little more than Thane of Eastmarch."

"What have you heard?"

Her expression was still carefully neutral, but there was something hard in her eyes, a hardness I knew graced my own. It was the look of someone who knew clawing out the eyes of her enemies was counterproductive, short-term satisfaction only, and pointless in the long-term. It was the look of someone who would have preferred to stick a dagger between her enemy's ribs if she could get to them… and if she could use a dagger to best effect.

"That you're one of Ulfric's advisors."

I laughed at this. It might be true, but there was no need to be blunt about it. "You've been speaking to Jorleif."

She nodded.

"Jorleif is a kind-minded fellow and gives me too much credit. No, Lord Ulfric occasionally consults me on diplomatic matters. He's a very forthright person and a bit heavy-handed because of it. Knowing this, he occasionally seeks an outside opinion."

"Of course." But I could tell she was trying to read between the lines of everything she's heard from others and now from me.

"My lady?" Svana ventured, so she wouldn't startle anyone by just appearing out of nowhere. She couldn't open the open door, her hands full of a tray containing a teapot, cups, little vessels of cream and sugar, a cup of willow bark tea, and several little pastries. She brought the tray in, set it on a corner of my desk and withdrew without another word.

"You've a sweet young woman looking after you," Mother approved as I poured tea and offered her the first cup, draining the willow bark tea myself before pouring a fresh cup for myself to kill the wild taste of the first.

"She is," I agreed. "How is Lily?"

"Dismissed once she no longer had charges to look after. I believe she's gone back to Rorikstead." Mother considered in silence, then set her cup down so she could take a pastry. She tasted it with a critical expression, as if trying to gauge how well I was being cared for by a maid doubling as a cook. The pastry met approval for she finished it with an arched-eyebrows expression. "And multitalented. Wherever did you find her?"

"Riften."

"Ah." Whether that meant something or not, I didn't know. I supposed it didn't.

"She might let me skip one meal but never two. She has a way of beguiling compliance… or just slipping something in reach which is immediately eaten mindlessly." Usually because I'm deep in thought and not paying true attention to anything beyond my work. Eating provides something to do with the hands and chewing thoughtfully is a wonderful aid to thinking.

Mother nodded, then picked her tea back up, sipping it slowly. "There's a bounty on your head, you know."

"I suspect there is. Fortunately, Whiterun and Windhelm don't believe in extradition to Haafingar." And if you commit a crime there and a record is established, they deal with you harshly. "Did anyone ever attribute motive?"

"There was only ever a rumor."

"Oh?" That figures. It would destroy Radiant Raiment if word got out that one of the proprietresses had employed the Thalmor to solve a business dispute. That's like calling the Dark Brotherhood and bragging about it after the murder.

"A very quiet rumor—that she was somehow involved with Lucinda's death." Mother's eye bored into me, demanding that I confirm or deny this.

And look her in the eye when I did it.

"I found it in one of their logbooks. They wanted me. They killed her. And since the system Marcus was so proud of failed…" I shrugged. "I don't regret it and I sleep very well at night." Although I missed Ralof. A great deal of me dreaded the next time I saw him; the rest of me reminded myself that if he'd lost interest—it is said that time makes the heart grow fonder but that's not the impression I've gathered—I shouldn't be surprised. I expected it, after all, and wouldn't blame him. Still, expectation wouldn't make it easier to deal with when the inevitable finally happened.

I shook myself out of this spiral. It wouldn't do anyone any good… and I might be pleasantly surprised. He's got a generous heart; that's obvious given his liaison with me.

I shook myself again. Don't go there. Don't go borrowing trouble.

"That was the rumor, but only ever a very quiet one." She took the news about as I expected she would, given her questioning and her expression when asking. If she felt anything but grim acceptance of the truth it didn't show on her face.

"What motive _did_ they ascribe to it, since we're on the topic?"

"Nothing satisfactory."

"Mother, please."

She sighed. "You've been labeled a political criminal, to have been justly executed at Helgen but having escaped justice. You were implicated in an attack on a Thalmor stronghold, theft, resisting arrest… of course, Endarie's death—"

'Death,' I notice. Not 'murder.' It was a murder but not a crime. Hmph. Someone should write a song to that effect.

"—of course, excepting Endarie's death and the attack on Northwatch Keep, the rest is just dressing to make executing you more 'just.'" The words seemed to taste foul in her mouth. She had to set her cup down, the fine tremors shaking her hand having increased to the point of sloshing her tea. She leaned on her side of my desk, arms braced as she studied the wood grain. "I don't know what you're really doing here, Leandra," she said softly. "And I'm not asking. But I remember what you said before you left."

So do I:

 _Then I'll see you when Ulfric marches on Solitude!_

 _He'll never do it_.

 _He'll do it if I have to hold his hand the whole long way_.

"All I want to know before I decide whether to stay in Solitude is whether you need anything from Solitude." There was a hardness in her voice, a grim wish for just vengeance on an unassailable enemy. Killing them one by one on her own wasn't an option—it would fail in short order. But she understands patience as well as I do.

I studied her face, the sudden hard angles and the hints that she was about to break into angry tears. Pain had had time to shift into anger; grief had had time to change into resolution. She wasn't me. But I honestly believed that her offer was genuine… even if I would probably take anything she said with a grain of salt, as I do with all my increasing web of informants.

I've heard that the Void has no fury like a woman scorned, but looking into my mother's face I contested the saying: the Void has no abyss as dark as the heart of a mother whose child is ripped from her. "I do miss the news and gossip out of Solitude," I admitted, as if it were nothing in the world. It's dangerous being an informant of any kind if the information goes to an enemy faction, especially in Solitude. "But I accepted being cut off when I left. Katla sends me the _Solitude Courier_ though, when she thinks about it."

"The news and gossip," Mother repeated slowly as if tasting a foreign food she wasn't sure of but was giving due consideration.

I shrugged. "If you decide not to return to Solitude, I'll certainly see what I can do for you here." The offer was a sincere one. After all, she wasn't the one I completely fell out with. And I still remember her screaming at Marcus as I left.

"What could I do in Windhelm?" she asked softly, mostly of herself. Then she gave herself a shake. "Solitude has the best gossip in the Hold, capitol that it is."

"Yes, it does." I agreed, almost as softly as she'd asked what she could do in Windhelm. I knew the tone a little too well, knew that she would go back and feed me information at risk to herself if she was discovered. She would go back to Marcus, play the part she was expected to play, in hopes that her contribution would lead to revenge of her own.

I couldn't very well admit it, on the off chance I was wrong and misunderstood Mother, but I felt she would be pleased with the end results I had dreamed up and was determined to effect.

"But even innocent gossip can be dangerous—witness our family affairs."

Mother grimaced. "It could be, if I was sending it to Windhelm. But Whiterun is a neutral Hold."

"Since I refuse to be Leandra Ashlynn, I'm commonly known as Leandra Grey—Lady Grey if cordiality is observed. It's not uncommon for my mail to go to Whiterun, to my business partner Ysolda, who knows the name I've assumed and forwards things to me. Whiterun is so conveniently located and our system of exchanging mail is much better than any courier."

Mother nodded, moistening her lips with her tongue. "Marcus has his opinions and I have mine. I refuse to be deprived of my remaining daughter. By _anyone_."

And that sealed the matter. I had news out of Solitude; Mother had the sense of doing _something_ now that the ugliness behind the Empire her husband loved so much had been exposed.

I came around the desk and put my arms around Mother, who immediately wrapped hers snugly around me. Neither of us said anything, but I had the impression I wasn't the only one trying not to cry, or who took comfort in the embrace.


	30. Chapter 30

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!

-L-

(Delivered by messenger hawk)

Rain's Hand 10

Pinewatch/Lakeview

My dear cousin:

The bandit problem has been stamped out once and for all, but it is imperative that the next time you are in the area you make a detour to take my report in person. Pinewatch has turned out to be an unusual building and I don't doubt you will see its applications far better than I.

Yours,

Geirlund

-L-

(Delivered by messenger hawk)

Rain's Hand 12

Markarth, Silver-Blood Inn

Madame Grey:

Nothing is as I left it. One would imagine the city was under siege, the atmosphere is so thick. When asked, the proprietor of the Inn indicated that the distress was caused by an influx of Thalmor: without an Embassy to house them, and with Solitude able to hold only so many(?) the rest were shipped here. It's done nothing to ease the minds of the people. I suspect _they_ begin to feel watched and stifled.

A sad state of existence. Markarth used to be a beautiful, if damp and stony, place to live. But I'm sure the Embassy will be rebuilt soon and that will no doubt restore the balance, both to the city's atmosphere and to its people.

Fortunately for me, the Silver Blood Inn is nothing short of marvelous given the atmosphere outside. Warm and inviting, you'd be amazed how many of Markarth's locals have the time and coin to spare on a few strong drinks. 'When the gossip mill turns,' my friend Kleppr says, 'the central cog is here.' I imagine anything to be heard and remembered would be found here. I've never been much of a gossip, but it would be amusing to start a rumor and see how far it goes, how fast it goes, and how it changes with each retelling.

I could only admit such a childish impulse to you, Madame.

Another malcontent was seized and thrown into Cidhna Mine. You'd think these people would figure it out for themselves that in a well-regulated city like Markarth, such things are not to be tolerated. May he rot down there like Madanach and all other troublemakers. Goodness knows the city has enough trouble. I don't know what could cause more stress, but I don't think I want to hazard guesses.

I do seem to have made some friends since my return—the old saying apparently runs true and absence makes the heart grow fonder. It may take some time to reestablish myself with all of them, but it's lovely to realize how many people I knew. I fully expect to be so popular I'll do little but loan money, but it's only money after all and there's always more of it.

One of my newer friends mentioned that the Jarl is feeling the Thalmor squeeze. His uncle, Raerek, feels it even more, as devoted to his nephew as he is. I can only imagine the burdens such dedication brings with it; how a man can perform his duties when thinking like a relative is beyond me. You'd never catch me doing such a foolish thing.

But my letter waxes nostalgic it seems, and no one likes nostalgic letters. Blame the atmosphere in Markarth as I assuredly do.

Your faithful servant who has not forgotten the service you have rendered him,

Vorstag

-L-

(Delivered by messenger hawk)

12 Rain's Hand

Whiterun, House Grey-Mane

Geirlund:

Two travelers are on their way to you in order to manage the estate which is being built under your careful guidance—Olfina and Jon Battle-Born. I'm not sure whether you know them, but they are essential to my future plans. Please see that they are installed as comfortably as possible. They have been apprised that the house is not yet finished. They are laboring under the belief that they serve as steward and housecarl, and that this estate is meant to receive my little brothers and sister whom I wish to preserve from the rigors of this war as it intensifies. The arrangement is that they will be provided for as long as my little siblings are well cared for. Apprise me when they arrive and keep yourselves well.

Yours,

Lady Grey

-L-

The trip to Whiterun was successful.

By this point, I was known as a _dear_ friend of the Grey-Mane family, particularly since making contact with Vignar (and since he recognized me as being an emissary of Ulfric's). I'd approached Olfina the Golden discreetly—because of course it would have to be discreetly, not the least to avoid losing my status with the Grey-Mane family—and laid out a proposition: I gave her the venue through which she and her 'true love' could run away and be together without being dragged down by the baggage of such a 'rebellion' against family politics.

Although hesitant about the idea, a few days of thought had brought her round to my way of thinking. The day after I left Whiterun, Olfina and Jon would head to Riften's Benevolence of Mara before going to Lakeview in Falkreath.

I don't know how long it takes six men to build a house, even a house that was already underway when they began. Still, Geirlund and his lads should have made some strides in the direction of completing some part of it. Hopefully enough to be semi-habitable.

I sunk into the steaming bath with a groan, breathing deeply of the fragrant oil that Svana had poured into it. Mint and lavender whispered up from the hot water, bringing relief to my mind as well as my tired body. At risk of falling asleep, I sat up and began washing my hair. Get clean first; soak later.

Wuunferth hadn't come through for me yet, which was a little disappointing. However, Marcurio's repair of the poison detecting ring had taken time and he was only working with a broken artifact. Wuunferth probably had to work from scratch. And if anyone understood the necessity of time, it would be me.

Speaking of Marcurio, his latest report was on my desk. Full of mostly meaningless gossip, it did contain a few nuggets of interest: the Thieves Guild was starting to bounce back from some kind of misfortune and Maven (possibly resultant of this) was scrambling to shore up her position in Riften, particularly with the Jarl. I can't see them remaining reliant on her goodwill if they don't absolutely have to. That isn't to say they'll burn their bridges out of spite, but I imagine it's better to be a cat than a lapdog.

My inroads into Laila's good graces probably hadn't helped Maven's naturally cautious (or even paranoid) mind. The worst she can do is summon the Dark Brotherhood. But I think she took my threat about someone putting an arrow in her eye if anything happened to me seriously—good for me, since it was a bluff at the time and, technically speaking, still is.

She doesn't need to know that. The more Leandra-cast shadows she jumps at the happier I'll be. The more the political scene down there disrupts, the better.

I jerked out of a doze at the gentle but insistent tapping on my door. "What?" I demanded groggily, rubbing my eyes while yawning hugely.

On the other side of the screen that usually blocks the view of my bed—now moved to block my bath—the door opened. "My lady, a runner from the Palace of the Kings just arrived. Jarl Ulfric requires your presence… the runner made it sound rather urgent," Svana announced.

I wanted to growl something unpleasant and grim, but I stomped it down, getting to my feet and wrapping a towel around myself. "Tell the messenger that I'll be there shortly, then come back and help me with this dress."

Wrapped in one towel and drying my hair with another, I opened my wardrobe, selected one of my favorite dresses—white with a slate-blue over-gown—and began the process of dressing.

Because such a summons can only mean one of two things: bad news or a formal presence. I'd rather be overdressed than underdressed.

-L-

It produced mixed feelings to see the main chamber in ruins. Someone or something had wrecked the place, and I didn't quite know what to think except 'maybe he'll listen to décor advice now that he's got to reassemble the room.' I'd like to think I can tastefully but not ostentatiously arrange a favorable impression for visitors, but it's convincing men (and particularly men who don't care about this sort of show) that it really is necessary.

I understand that the Palace of the Kings is a bachelor's hall, but really. It does look like he can't afford to keep it looking nice as opposed to the simple indifference it actually is. This is an historic building; he ought to take a bit more interest in it.

The meal was already begun when I arrived. Galmar sat on Ulfric's left, an empty chair waited at his right.

At his right hand, the place usually reserved for the most honored and trusted allies. Galmar didn't look upset or unsettled, nor did Jorleif, so I could only suppose Ulfric was making a show and it was my job to figure out what it was and how I figured into it. Or maybe I was thinking like an Imperial and, as with the kind of obeisance I was raised to see as simple courtesy, such denotations of station were less rigidly adhered to.

At the foot of the table was a red-haired woman, wearing a well-cut long jacket of a material reminding one of dragonhide. A blue silk scarf wrapped around her neck and under the collar, but as I passed I could see a greenish mark on her neck—not a bruise, but certainly unpleasant.

The brunette who sat on her right was sturdily built, wearing a glittering coat of silver mail, with crystals and glass worked in floral patterns around the neck and sleeves. From the way she shifted I deemed the mail to belong to the Dragonborn, since the housecarl (or so I presumed) seemed so uncomfortable in it.

The presence of the Dragonborn explained why the main hall was in such disarray. It also explained why Ulfric summoned me so abruptly.

" _There_ you are," Ulfric frowned.

I stopped and bobbed a deep curtsy—the kind he usually insists I refrain from—if only for the Dragonborn's benefit. "Pardon my lateness, my lord. There was a matter required attention."

Ulfric's attention peaked, but he asked nothing and I volunteered nothing. I doubt he wants to hear that what needed attention was my own wellbeing.

"I see." He indicated I should take the empty chair, which I did. I supposed I'd better collect my thoughts as much as possible; chances are high he'll ask for a report or expect me to give one. And it isn't as though I don't have plenty to say.

I've seen the Dragonborn twice in my life: the first time at Helgen where she loaned Ralof and me her horse, the second time in Whiterun where we did some business. She looked different now, alert, almost curious. She toyed with her food as though thinking deeply herself. Unlike me, however, she didn't try to hide the fact.

"I didn't realize you'd married, my lord," the Dragonborn said, putting one elbow on the table and resting her chin on the back of her hand. She wore gloves, and when she moved her left hand there was a kind of… latency… in the movements, as if her fingers were asleep or as if the appendage had been damaged. "Forgive me for not offering my congratulations sooner."

Oh, good grief. Because that's the only reason one would find a lady in a bachelor's hall. I suppose I should be grateful—and I recognized it was my own disjointed temper causing such unpleasantness—she didn't assume I was Ulfric's mistress.

I poked at the appetizer. Soup isn't Heinrich's forte, so I wasn't disappointed at missing it. Thankfully, an appetizer is small, so I didn't worry about not enjoying the flavor. Because the idea of such a liaison with Ulfric was enough to make anything taste bad.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ulfric's cup stop halfway to his mouth as if someone had just smacked him. It was almost enough to make me laugh; it definitely improved my temper. The look of something akin to horror was almost hilarious.

Finally, he let out a bark of laughter, setting his cup down. His own evidence of amusement was enough to allow a wry smile to twist the line of my mouth. Ulfric is a capable leader and a generous patron (if I may use the word), but I would rather our relationship remain professional for a variety of reasons.

…and I felt a stab of missing the most prominent of reasons.

"No congratulations are in order. Leandra is a fine woman, make no mistake," Ulfric began.

I nodded politely. At the very least he sounded genuine about the assessment.

"But while I contend well enough with the ice of Windhelm, I refuse to have hers into the bargain. Too much of a thing is too much of a thing."

This time I really did smile and stopped shuffling my food around the plate. Yes, far too much of a thing. The idea of being in an entanglement—however proper—with Ulfric was… unpleasant… to contemplate… and didn't get any better with each additional reference. At this rate I won't enjoy a single scrap of this meal.

Still, I was here for a reason and, thus, had a role to fulfill. "And you are quite correct, your lordship. All things in moderation, nothing in excess." As the only woman from Ulfric's household, it was by default that the mantle of hostess rested on my shoulders—whether Ulfric realized it or not. It was impolitic of me not to put on that face before entering the room, but I'm not perfect. I should have been more conscientious.

"You surround yourself with the most interesting people, my Jarl," the Dragonborn answered politely before disappearing behind her cup as one of the servers whisked away her half-finished plate before bringing in the next course.

"And it's most beneficial to the Hold's operation," Ulfric agreed.

"May I ask what role your serve, Madame?" the Dragonborn asked. Her meager attention to Galmar and Jorleif told me she knew them, at least superficially.

"I serve my lord, as best I am able, in diplomatic matters," I answered. "Well, diplomacy among civilians, I should say. They require different conversation than military personnel."

The Dragonborn chuckled at this, nodding. "I imagine having someone to handle diplomacy is handy."

"Particularly for preserving the furniture."

The Dragonborn grinned toothily, blue eyes glittering uncannily. " _That_ was common courtesy. Students of the Voice must follow the proper forms… but I would prefer not to damage one of the few disciples of the Greybeards. Thus the poor furniture." She waved off-handedly to the main hall.

"I can't say I'm distressed. The room could use some sprucing up—" Ulfric winced at this, more as though the conversation had taken an unpleasant turn than because he found it unpleasant.

"It did look rather… austere," the Dragonborn agreed.

"To be certain. But you operate out of Whiterun, I believe?" Now comes the being careful part; it wouldn't do for her to know I have an increasingly large file about her.

"A good way to phrase it. I have strong ties to that particular Hold," came the nonchalant answer.

It was a polite warning, something for Ulfric to bear in mind… but it wasn't exactly a threat.

It confirmed my impressions and suppositions, though: she would take it badly if something… unfortunate… happened to Balgruuf. So however Whiterun is taken he and his family must be treated with the utmost care. House arrest in Windhelm for Balgruuf, and sanctuary for his children at Lakeview Manor. Those are the best options, especially since Balgruuf will remain neutral until provoked into picking a side—something the Dragonborn knows.

"I envy you the weather, certainly."

-L-

"She's calling a peace summit at High Hrothgar," Ulfric said flatly, rolling his shoulders and scowling at the mug of some strong spirit that smelled utterly vile. You could peel paint with that thing, I've no doubt.

It was late, very late, and I wanted to tell him to save it for tomorrow when I'd had opportunity to shrug off my journey. It would be impolitic however, so I made do with a mug of enlivening tea provided by Heinrich. The stimulant would keep me going for a little while longer. Long enough, hopefully, to finish the meeting with Ulfric and the rest of his advisors.

"A _peace_ summit," Galmar growled. "As if she wasn't Skyrim born and bred." He disappeared behind a mug of the same disgusting concoction as Ulfric.

Even Jorleif had a mug. Either the night was too late, they'd all had a rough day, or the Dragonborn gave them a headache requiring a hangover to banish. Frankly, I found her to be excellent conversation. Excellent in that it was easy to steer her chatter in any number of directions, providing any number of small insights. I hadn't tried for anything particularly probing, simply took her measure.

"That's why it's curious she should do so. And at High Hrothgar. The Greybeards are almost myth and legend where I grew up. So much so that one supposes they don't interact much with the rest of the world."

"They don't," Ulfric agreed. "They're hermits, wholly devoted to their… craft." His expression said 'craft' wasn't the word he wanted, just the first one to present itself.

"So we ask ourselves why they should bother getting involved now, and at her request." Or, rather, I ask him to theorize since of the four of us, he's the only one who has ever met the Greybeards.

"Many believe the war to be counterproductive. Perhaps Tullius got his hooks into her," Galmar grimaced.

"Unlikely," I shook my head. "She's Balgruuf's Thane. She won't declare for anyone unless he does. Besides, she's no friend to the Thalmor. It might have something to do with the dragon crisis." My understanding of it is… fragmented, too much myth, legend and exaggeration around the nuggets of truth. "Perhaps the chaos impedes her quest. Then it's a truce talk, and not an actual peace summit." This answer sounds more in keeping with what I learned of her, personally: she's got a job to do, she's _going_ to do it, and if people won't step aside she'll Shout them aside and hope the next rank is smarter when she says 'excuse me.' But that's a last resort kind of answer. Otherwise, she wouldn't have put so much effort into making contact with the varying factions' leaderships.

"That sounds more in line with what I perceived about her. She's not interested in our war, just her own. And," Ulfric raised his voice and held up a hand to quiet Galmar, "that is understandable. Especially if half the old tales are true."

Galmar growled something under his breath, shaking his head as he did so.

"A truce isn't an un-useful thing," I put in. "It's like winter: the time for spies and assassins. Oh," I waved as all three men tensed, looking at me as though to ask whether I'd heard anything threatening Ulfric or was planning something that threatened someone else. It was almost funny to see the effect that little phrase had on them. "I doubt you'll be assassinated—the Empire can't afford to be perceived as truce-breakers, even the Thalmor know that. Especially the Thalmor."

"How's Whiterun coming?" Ulfric asked, shifting restlessly.

"Almost ready. Once I have the last few pieces poised, we will merely be awaiting your command." The last pieces are Nurelion's distilled Sleeping Tree sap sedative, and Vignar's insiders, the ones who will slip the children the sedative and then help me handle them once they've been put under. Because this has to happen before Balgruuf joins the field in defense of his city. He has to surrender before he sets foot outside the castle.

"And you still think you can do this _bloodlessly_?" Galmar asked dubiously.

"I never said that. I said I could rearrange the situation so that Balgruuf surrenders before the siege drags on too long," I returned calmly. "Certainly, bring the siege equipment, but be ready to move it. I'll take Falkreath in relatively quick succession." I picked up Falkreath's Imperial red flag marker and turned it in my fingers.

I don't intend Siddgeir to survive. He's a squiggly liability. Dengeir will have to be recalled. Valga is the best choice for Jarl. It may take some effort to convince Ulfric to look outside the comrades' club for help. After years of mismanagement, Falkreath needs someone with Falkreath's welfare in mind, someone undistracted by a declining sense of personal safety. I don't doubt that, except for Nenya, the Hold might just go bankrupt, and not knowing how close it actually is… well. I like an odd number when it comes to politics. One never gets into a true deadlock of a tie. Sooner or later one party caves and then… resolution.

Nenya is a worthy woman, but not Jarl material. Let her do her job though, and Valga will, and Falkreath will see a decided upturn in prosperity.

"Leandra."

I shook myself, opening eyes I hadn't realized I'd closed. "I beg your pardon, my lord."

Ulfric frowned. "At dinner, you said something earlier required your attention."

"Yes. I wasn't half an hour back when your runner arrived," I answered with a yawn. "It's still groundwork, but I think that once the negotiated truce the Dragonborn levers expires we'll be ready to take Whiterun. And Falkreath in quick succession." We just have to get our men in quickly. Falkreath isn't a major Hold; they care less about who's in charge than places like Markarth or Riften. Minor Holds tend to worry about immediate concerns: the harvests, banditry, flooding, that sort of thing.

Ulfric studied me closely.

"I've also inserted a contact into Solitude. I should start getting information from them within the week." I almost, _almost_ , smiled at the varying degrees of flabbergasted on the three men's faces.


	31. Chapter 31

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80, who looks over all these chapters so my typos don't take over paragraph at a time!

-J-

"I'm a genius and you should be grateful," Wuunferth announced as soon as I entered his office. He stood at his alchemy table grinding something into powder. Nearby, something else smoked, sending up odd lavender coils (and a rank smell like stale water incongruous with the pretty smoke).

"My charm is ready?"

"How should I know? Your silver tongue is your business, not mine."

Ooh. Someone's in a mood today. I suspect he's hoping for praise to fall like a shower of gold.

"It's there," he motioned negligently to a red cushion conspicuously situated on a blatantly neater than everywhere else worktop.

On the cushion lay a pendant, meant to fit close to the neck, made of ebony with lacy arcs of glittering jet, and a smooth black opal in an ebony setting.

"You can wear it as long as you like in its dormant state. There's a word to wake the spell and put it back to sleep and, yes, even someone without magic can do it," Wuunferth declared, bringing his mortar and pestle with him. "There's a catch: you can't wear it in its active state all the time, just a few hours at most."

"How few is a few?" I asked, frowning. Restrictions were unexpected, though perhaps I shouldn't be surprised.

"Four, _maybe_. The pendant will be hot while the spell is active but it will go cold at about half an hour from failure and get steadily colder. You'll _want_ to take it off. The spell will fail before it does you any harm."

"Is that possible?" I asked, looking away from the necklace.

Wuunferth lowered his bushy brows and narrowed his eyes as if my intelligence had suddenly failed to meet his expectations. "You'd be unpleasantly surprised. The wake-word is _suscito_. The sleep-word is _dormio_. Not words you'll find in everyday conversation even on an off chance." Wuunferth had, by this point, forgotten about the stuff he was grinding down, gesticulating freely with his pestle and beginning to sound quite pleased with himself.

" _Suscito_ and _dormio_."

"They only work if you're wearing it. One reason they're close to your throat. Don't rely on this thing to blur you out for an entire room, the spell's not powerful enough for that. Maybe if you were a mage, but not as you are. Hmph. Maybe for the best, I don't know why you want this thing and I don't really care to."

I ignored the grumping. "Blur me out?"

Wuunferth considered. "Yes. It makes you seem too normal to be worth remembering. 'Just a woman' or 'they had brown hair' or 'maybe fair eyes.' Nothing concrete, nothing that could allow someone to connect the dots, even if someone thinks to ask around. Now, it's more difficult on a mage and the spell _will_ run down more quickly the harder it has to work. The charm can't be directly dispelled, but if a mage tries a dispel on you, it will sap the pendant quickly. Maybe five minutes, maybe fifteen. There're a lot of factors."

Good to know, I thought as I picked up the necklace. "It's quite lovely, apart from being very well-crafted."

Wuunferth preened at this. "Naturally. Can't have one of Ulfric's advisors walking around wearing junk jewelry. It sends the wrong message."

"You're a gem, Wuunferth. How does it, er, recharge?"

"It recharges itself in its dormant state. But if you leave it in close contact with a soul gem, it'll recharge faster, slowly draining the gem. On average, it takes about as much time dormant as was used waking to recharge. So if you're only using it for brief conversations and leave it on your vanity table overnight, you won't notice a deficit. If you've been using it against a mage, it probably will take twice as long as it was active—hence the ability to drain off a soul gem. It's a small enchantment on a minor magical item—you don't need any particularly fancy soul gem. Just a little petty one and you can pick those up almost anywhere." Wuunferth shrugged.

And with the right weapon, theoretically, I could make my own—well, _fill_ my own. Unfortunately, I deal mostly with sentient species and I won't get into necromancy. I put it about my neck, looking for the catch. It didn't have one: the ends simply merged, pulling the pendent into place. That's a hallmark of a very fine piece of work: you see it with armor and rings all the time. Not so often with close-fitting necklaces.

"There's a mirror just there if you care to look," Wuunferth pointed with his pestle.

I followed his directions and took a few moments to admire the contrast of ebony and glinting gems against my pale throat. "It's marvelous work, Wuunferth. I knew it had to be, but this… it's beyond all expectation."

"Well, now that that's done, off you go. I'm busy. Go play with your new toy. Shoo." But he smiled, still preening as he made to usher me away.

"Remind me of the wake-word and the sleep-word."

" _Suscito_ and _dormio_ , respectively. You might want to write them down."

Wise, on the whole. Chuckling I did so, then withdrew.

-L-

The first thing I did was test the pendant. As trusting as I am of Wuunferth's work, I don't want to see it for the first time while I'm in the field. That's just asking for trouble.

I went through the market making purchases and chatting with the proprietors. Then I went back through looking for 'a woman who just passed through here' and observing the garbled results. Mostly vague confusion, bland remembrance of a woman who bought something—and even then they had to check inventory ledgers. No one really remembered anything particularly useful about me.

The second thing was to let it recharge, before taking it back to Wuunferth. For testing purposes.

"Do you really think I wouldn't recognize my own work?" he demanded as soon as he looked to see who it was that invaded his workshop.

"It doesn't matter to me either way," I answered, laying several small dragon bones on his workbench. "I'm testing duration."

"Hn. Wise, on the whole. Every user could expect something a little different. Sit over there and don't interrupt me."

I obeyed, picking a book at random from one of the shelves.

Finally, and proving he'd cast a dispel on me while I had my attention elsewhere, the amulet turned stone cold. "That's it," I announced, getting to my feet and returning the book to its place.

"Hn."

"Thank you, Wuunferth."

I wore the necklace all the way home, still active. By the time I arrived at Hjerim it was like wearing a choking, freezing band of iron around my neck and I had to resist at every step yanking the thing off. The headache it induced, and a sense of exhaustion, lasted several hours. Wuunferth wasn't kidding when he said the thing would let me know when the charm wore thin. He'd done a wonderful job of disincentivizing overuse.

Because I was just the type to overuse it if I could, in spite of risks, depending on the situation.

-L-

Falkreath was a lovely contrast to Windhelm. Warm and green, the air was rich with sunlight and wholesome fragrances.

More pleasant was taking a drop at the Dead Man's Drink at which a much less strained Valga was hard at work. She thanked me only once and very quietly… but I drank for free, starting with a glass of my favorite wine.

Less pleasant was the visit to Nenya—or rather the obligatory interaction with Siddgeir which accompanied my visit to Nenya. Having lost out on the money producing me or news of me before Mother found me had reduced his fondness of me to some degree. Not enough that he didn't practically make me swear a blood oath to grace his table with my presence some evening, but he was certainly pouty and (to an unflattering degree in a grown man) sullen about the lost revenues.

It was something I couldn't get out of, and from which I could glean information. Now, how much of it would be useful was beyond me. Therefore, I set a date two days hence. It would give me the rest of today, tomorrow, and all of the next day before I had to see him again. And then I'd leave on the next day for a brief visit to Whiterun and back to Windhelm.

I must admit, I never expected to do this much traveling when I assumed the post of 'diplomatic advisor.' Part of me began to wonder if I needed to rest more between trips. Then again, there's just so much to do. I'd probably end up chewing my nails or something else unflattering if I didn't keep myself nice and busy.

Lakeview Manor looked well on its way to being finished; the outside certainly looked done, walls between the supporting beams carefully plastered, the shingles—as opposed to the usual thatch—already laid out like scale mail. Olfina had a good start on the vegetable patch, as well as having a hen coop and (to my surprise) an apiary. What can I say? Honey is popular in Skyrim. The little stable that was here the first time I was had been rebuilt into a comfortable lodging for any four-legged visitors.

Mjoll and I hitched our horses inside, and weren't halfway to the front door of the house when a shrill cry (shrill with joy, I hasten to add) sounded: "Oh! Leandra!"

Within moments, Olfina (who looked flush and happier than I'd ever seen her before) appeared with a basket of laundry just off the line. She set the basket down and hugged me as if expecting me to arrest her momentum. She nearly knocked me over. "I didn't know you were dropping by!"

"Surprise visit—I wanted to make sure everything was progressing well," I answered, wishing she'd hurry up and let me go.

"Marvelously! Your gentlemen friends have been absolutely wonderful." With that, Olfina tugged me by the arm into the house.

The inside was nowhere near as well-finished, but most of the walls were up, although not quite finished to a housewife's satisfaction—that is to say, many lacked the room-lightening (and fire danger reducing) pale plaster. The kitchen was finished; on the ground floor, opposite the kitchen, was a wing with several bedrolls, and an empty room that let down into the cellar perpendicular to these. Upstairs were more bedrooms—the master suite (occupied by Olfina and Jon) and a guest room.

The stonework floors of the previous builders lay neatly; the plank floors upstairs joined properly. I had no complaints about the construction though more than one about the furnishings. With a mental sigh, I rummaged in my travel satchel for my little scroll of paper and charcoal writing stick, scratching notes.

It was in the middle of congratulating the lads and exchanging pleasantries that Geirlund sidled up to me. I didn't miss that his men would rather be out fighting the war, but no one complained about being relegated to construction and masonry. Either Geirlund explained that I wouldn't have them doing this unless it had to do with the war effort or they surmised as much themselves.

At first opportunity, Geirlund leaned over. "You need to see Pinewatch."

"Stay here," I murmured to Mjoll, who nodded stoutly.

The instant Jon and Olfina turned their backs, the lads went back to work, while Geirlund and I slipped out.

-L-

The shack that was Pinewatch was a wretched little hovel, filthy, odiferous, and derelict—just the place a bandit troupe would use as a flophouse. "Nasty little place," I noted. My first inclination was to tear it down so as to avoid more of the wrong sort moving in again. However, with Geirlund's assurance that Pinewatch wasn't all it appeared to be, I said nothing about this opinion. Better to remain silent than be proved a precipitous fool.

Geirlund led me down into a lower level of the house, stopping beside a bookcase. "Imagine our surprise." He touched something hidden behind a table and the bookcase swung freely and noiselessly open. "Turns out there really was more than Embershard's problems. The lot we cleaned out of here were raiding merchant wagons. I think your business partner was exceptionally lucky."

My guts quivered at the thought; apparently Zenithar _has_ been keeping my endeavors in his peripheral vision. I entered the long, earthen passage, nose wrinkling as the odor of cool, musty cavern hit my nose.

Pinewatch's subterraneous portion turned out not to be a small subterraneous addition; it was actually an entire cave system that intermingled with ancient architecture into which the bandits had tapped. The mix of cut and dressed stone, natural rock walls, plus wooden walkways and scaffolds left my stomach quivering. One could hide an _army_ down here and, if one was careful, do it without anyone knowing. Already the infrastructure was present. I could post a garrison here… and since my plans for this war call for Falkreath to fall in short order after Whiterun, having numbers at the ready would be most beneficial.

More than even that, it would put a safety net around Balgruuf's children. If anything went wrong, _anything_ , they could be whisked away with a snap of fingers to a fortified place. I put the thought aside for the time being.

It didn't look like Geirlund or his men made any inroads into sorting what all was down here. Not that I blamed them: clearing this place and getting Lakeview ready were the main objectives, after all. But the sheer amount of goods was staggering—Ysolda was truly fortunate not to have run afoul of these people.

In all likelihood, there's no way to backtrack to whom all these goods belong. Therefore, there's only one thing to do: make use of them. The tricky bit is to get stuff out of here without Lakeview being aware—that means moving at night, which has its own problems.

But it also solved a couple problems: I'm sure I can find more than a little here that could supply Lakeview.

The complex ended in a chamber beyond a hallway full of… "Flour sacks?" I asked, looking at the full bags scattered across the floor.

"None of us are any good with traps and whoever rigged this hall was crazy or a genius," Geirlund announced. "Don't worry, we got the whole of it covered." With that, he led me into what had to be where the bandits stored the best of their loot. There was no other explanation for a long hall full of traps than 'important things beyond.'

The treasury (so I called it) was a small, unassuming room with piles of junk intermingled with actual items of value. It seemed to me the work of an uneducated eye: if it _looked_ expensive, it was moved here. Jewels and coin, both of which I could move easily, junk jewelry, actual jewelry, ornamental dagger… and a curious box. The dressed wooden box contained an artist's etching on the bottom, indicating it was meant for one 'Endon of Markarth' from an artist in Valenwood.

Upon opening the box, I found it to be a mold for metalwork—this wasn't surprising. Silver is the lifeblood of Markarth and Endon is the finest silversmith in all Skyrim. I used to own a few pieces of his work, and the silver in the trousseaux that should have accompanied my and Lucinda's respective weddings was all done by him.

I considered the box, then tucked it under my arm. At the very least, I can see it returned to him, when I have time. There was more in the chests around the room: one containing both Moon Sugar and skooma (which told me at least one of the Khajiiti caravans had been hit), several containing expensive fabrics both as whole cloth and unspoiled garments, a chest of weapons all gleaming with the evidences of properties beyond keen edges or useful bluntness.

"She had that box there by her bed," Geirlund pointed to the small box I picked up and opened next.

I could see why. Although the showiest jewelry was on the little table (or altar, I suppose), the useful stuff was in the box. "I think the war effort just took a giant leap forward," I mused, investigating the jewels in the case. Those have to come with me for Wuunferth to run his eyes over. "I'll send a crew down here to take inventory and serve as a forward unit for the garrison. Then you won't have to spend your time running back and forth."

"There was one other thing. This being here and the cellar not being finished."

He didn't have to explain further. "Absolutely, but I'll make it the other team's objective. People might wonder why you look like you're excavating if there's no excavation to be done."

Geirlund nodded.

"Lock this place down and leave one of the lads to make sure it remains undisturbed. Meanwhile, I'll send a message to… Avulstein?"

"Vidrald. He doesn't miss much and has more method. If you want a good accounting of what's down here, he's the man to talk to."

I had to smile. "Very well. I'll pull him immediately."

-L-

The dinner with Siddgeir I'd so dreaded turned out not to be predictable in the company attending.

Siddgeir was there obviously, but in a morose mood he didn't even try to conceal.

I sat to Sidgeir's left, while Nenya sat to his right.

Beside me, Dengeir (looking antsy) and beside Nenya was Thadgeir (looking weary).

Beside Dengeir, an Imperial Legate, introduced as Skulnar. He looked rather as one roped into attending a semi-formal function and was none too pleased about it. I'd known that Siddgeir had strong Imperial ties, but the presence of the Legate surprised even me. Siddgeir is hardly as important as he liked to believe himself to be. It could mean one of two things: that Siddgeir needed watching or that the Empire planned to use Falkreath as a jumping-off point.

And beside Thadgeir, an exceptionally grim Solaf. I suspected he was included only because it was dinnertime and he would round out the party. Or maybe he and Siddgeir were having 'business difficulties.' Several trips into Falkreath for supplies left Geirlund with the unpleasant suspicion that Solaf had, in fact, been fencing for the bandits. If true… it could prove awkward.

For him.

I'll send Mjoll to Geirlund, tell him to be ready in case Solaf needs to talk to his suppliers. If he shows up in person… so much the better. His brother is a Stormcloak sympathizer, though no very rabid one. That could come in handy later—especially if he's assured he's not culpable in his brother's disgraceful conduct.

Helvard, as Housecarl, was there in his professional capacity—as was Mjoll, who towered over my shoulder glowering at Siddgeir.

"And you've made such inroads with Lakeview Manor—that is what you call it, yes?" Nenya asked cheerfully.

"I'm not a very imaginative woman, I'm afraid. But yes, the crew I brought in to finish it has done wonders!" I agreed enthusiastically. "And I never realized just _how_ charming the spot was. They say it will be completely finished in a few weeks' time. By autumn everything should be well in order."

"And furnished?" Solaf asked, finally interjecting into a conversation that had been Nenya's and my joint contrivance. Siddgeir's 'court' would have been happier brooding, I think. Nenya, however, did her utmost to present the Jarl's table in a creditable fashion.

"…that is the difficulty out here," I answered, frowning. "The expense of shipping everything in would be considerable. But I must wonder about whether there's a point to dealing locally."

Solaf shrugged. "Might be. Depends on what you're hoping to find."

I made a show of thinking hard. "I… suppose I could list you a few things before I leave tomorrow. Then we'll see. Would that suit you?"

Solaf shrugged again. "We'll see."

Charming. This might be the most noncommittal man I've ever met. If he were smarter it would make him interesting.

-L-

(Hand-delivered by Mjoll the Lioness)

20 Rain's Hand

Geirlund:

I have certain creeping suspicions about Solaf of Grey Pine Goods. Based on what I found at Pinewatch, I'll be giving him a list of things he doesn't have in the shop. If he shows up, kill him, let him turn up 'murdered by his bandit cohorts' in the lake, and contact me. If he sends men in his stead, kill all of them and dispose of the bodies somewhere discreet until he shows up in person.

If Bolund is the one who shows up, take him into custody and hold him. Contact me and I'll make arrangements.

Lady Grey


	32. Chapter 32

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80, who looks over these chapters!

-J-

"And the roads in and out of the Hold?" I asked, studying the map Vidrald spread on the rough wooden table.

"Most likely down through Haafingar," Vidrald said, laying down a map of the Province and tracing a finger along the main road. "Can't take them cross-country through all those half-frozen bogs."

"Could they come through Falkreath?"

"Longer way around, but they could. Depends on how much time they have."

I nodded. Then we don't leave them much time. "So on the main roads through Haafingar. We can make arrangements to slow them down or damage equipment, yes?"

"Absolutely."

Breeze blew through the tent, carrying the odd smell of the Sleeping Tree, and sunlight streamed in through the opened sides.

I looked up, studying Vidrald's face. "I'm only preparing the way," I said to the mute interrogation. "But hopefully before too long passes."

He sighed. "That's the hard part about a war. The hurry up and wait."

"Well, at least you'll have a change of scene. I'm moving you to Falkreath." I rolled up the map of the Hold with all Vidrald's notes meticulously inked onto it. "Geirlund asked for you specifically. I need an accurate accounting of everything he and his men turned up."

I picked up a charcoal stick and marked Lakeview Manor with a dark spot. "He'll show you where you need to be. I hope you got enough sun while out here."

He shrugged. "Change of scene might be nice."

Except it will be underground. Only lately had I begun to wonder what that might do to morale. Using Pinewatch as a garrison will require a very precise timetable to keep people from growing sun-starved.

-L-

Mjoll and I had been following the troop of Stormclaoks for the better part of half an hour before the sense of déjà vu finally got to me. "Hey, there!" I kicked my horse to a trot to catch them up.

They all turned. Somewhere about the middle stood Ralof, whose expression cracked into one of unmitigated joy. "Where in Oblivion did you come from?" he demanded.

I had to laugh as I pulled my horse to a stop alongside him. "I'm beginning to feel a little nostalgic."

"Not too nostalgic—that didn't go so well." Gallantly (but a little uncomfortably, since Ralof isn't comfortable with horses) he offered me a hand down, which I took.

"Not well at all, no."

Ralof shook himself, and I didn't miss that he held onto me a little longer than necessity demanded. My insides knotted. I'd stopped in Riverwood to pay my respects to Gerdur and her family, though I didn't stay long. Seeing Ralof again left me feeling… uneasy. Still, he looked glad to see me which was something. It had been a while.

"Lads, Lady Grey, Thane of Windhelm," he announced, as if producing a rare creature for inspection followed by admiration. If I was another woman, I might have blushed.

"Gentlemen," I inclined my head, making a point to take note of their names.

"Been busy, then?" Ralof asked cheerfully, once we were underway again.

"Yes. Your sister sends you her best and little Frodnar is desperate to see you again. I told him I'd tell you."

"I appreciate it."

Conversation remained light and banal, much to my relief. So much so that my stomach began to unclench. As much as I'd wanted to, part of me had been dreading seeing Ralof again. More accurately, absence makes the heart forgetful. I wouldn't be surprised, I wouldn't blame him for moving on or looking elsewhere…

…but I didn't relish the prospect.

So I relished the walking and inconsequential chatter instead, the casual companionship. Enjoy it while I can.

-L-

(Forwarded from Whiterun)

Proudspire Manor, Solitude

Rain's Hand 16,

From the Desk of Mme. Ashlynn

To my dear Lady Grey, warmest greetings,

As you can see, I hurried my return to Solitude, having found no news of my missing daughter. I can tell you that it was news greeted with mixed emotions. I know I previously confided to you the state of my marriage; I have decided to avoid the scandal. Mine are, have always been, a proud people; to allow such an effective ruination of the family to whom I have been devoted all these years is an affront my soul cannot bear.

I won't say Marcus was unsurprised. Nor will I say there's peace in the house. Only silence.

Speaking of silence, Vittoria Vici, you remember her? To be wed in early Rain's Hand? I don't know if information has got out yet, as I believe it's being suppressed. She was tragically killed at her own wedding. A section of loose stonework finally gave out right on top of her head. It was gruesome in the extreme, I'm told… and curious. You've seen the stonework of Solitude and know very well how it is kept. Hardly like Markarth or that ghastly Windhelm. You know how Society loves a good scandal, and there are little birds cheeping all over that it was _murder._

No suspects, of course… no _real_ suspects. Because, of course, _everyone_ saw a mysterious figure around town that day, aching as they do to take part in the macabre spectacle. I did find it odd that there was no attempt to foist blame on those abominable Stormcloaks. Not a whisper. I suppose it's unlikely any of them are quite that smart. If they were, we'd all be in trouble, don't you agree? Stendarr help us all!

If not the most closely guarded of secrets, but whatever you may have heard the Emperor wasn't present for the wedding. She may be his cousin, but for a wedding with a husband-to-be like that? Perish the thought. It would be most impolitic.

Also lacking in security.

I do suspect he'll come to investigate this death, however. _Not_ to do so would be impolitic. His cousin, newly married to a prominent pro-Stormcloak man? (And they say the age of peace brides—or in this case, peace-husbands—is over!) Say what one will about Emperor Titus, he's not one to balk from enemies he can meet head-on. I imagine that will make any number of people nervous. And careful.

You know, something was brought to my attention the other day during lunch with some of the ladies. It seems that the East Empire Company is having difficulties (you know no one in business ever has _problems_ —just temporary burdens). One of the ladies has a husband in some distress at the present time. Apparently the shipping lanes out of Windhelm have become incredibly dangerous, so much so that the Company is considering sending investigators.

I shouldn't, but I do wonder that Jarl Ulfric hasn't been made aware that a major revenue source has fallen into difficulties. If he hasn't received word, I do wonder why. Perhaps the incidents are isolated. Or perhaps the incidents are being insulated. It's all for the best if it's true—a war can't run without money, and the Company is certainly a great source of income for any port into which they dock and having rival companies is best for those assessing fees.

I daresay the Company would be grateful to anyone who took an interest in their affairs and more than that to anyone who could help get them sorted.

I suppose it matters little to you in Whiterun, but gossip is less conscientious of borders than people are.

Yours,

Mme. Ashlynn

-L-

(Forwarded from Whiterun)

Proudspire Manor, Solitude

Rain's Hand 19,

From the Desk of Mme. Ashlynn

To my dear Lady Grey, warmest greetings,

We, that is the City of Solitude, had interesting company this last evening—interesting and distinguished. The Dragonborn herself, attended by a rather charming Altmer companion and a Nord (I assume her Housecarl). It's all over—you know full well how gossip spreads—that as attached as she is to Jarl Balgruuf, it appears she's interested in Jarl Elisif as well (though perhaps not in the same way). The rumor is that just as she gave Balgruuf a token representing solidarity, she presented a gift of similar intention—in this case, a necklace of sapphires and diamonds worth a Cyrodilic countess' ransom at the very least!

What was interesting was that the Dragonborn left with a package, wrapped in burlap. Whether a reciprocal gift or something to be made use of later, it's unknown. But the gossip I've collected suggests that the package contained an item belonging to the late High King and which needed conveyance somewhere specific. More concrete is the knowledge that Elisif seemed much relieved, as if a great duty-burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

I do worry for that poor girl, hemmed in as she is by the Legion. They do so little for the ambiance of a place and you know how lovely the Blue Palace is. Did I mention that the Dragonborn paid General Tullius a visit as well? No, I can see that I didn't. Well, she did and not on the same terms or in the same tone as her visit to Elisif. Interesting that she should show interest in both parties. I need hardly say she did not make any overtures to the Thalmor.

Curiously enough, they left her alone. I half expected her to be arrested or assassinated, but nothing of the sort happened. The whole visit was quite quiet. I do sometimes wonder what it all means.

Write to me soon, my dearest friend,

Mme. Ashlynn

-L-

(Delivered by dedicated message hawk)

Rain's Hand 21

Markarth, Silver-Blood Inn

Madame Grey:

I appreciate the dedicated hawk, as much of what I have to tell should not be intercepted. Things have been in an uproar. There was a mass breakout from Cidhna Mine, which means Madanach is now loose, and the Forsworn have been busier than anyone could have expected. As has Clan Silver-Blood.

Six days ago, there was a murder in the marketplace—a young woman by name of Margret. Some Forsworn in plain clothes came at her shrieking about 'the Reach belongs to the Forsworn' before knifing her brutally. She was dead with the first strike, I'm sure, but he got several more good hits in before I managed to intervene… at which point the guard swooped in much later than usual.

Looking back, it's utterly predictable that the assailant was killed. And this happened, mind you, within the city—right in the middle of the marketplace near the gates. Bold, even for them. Say what one will, they're a bold people.

The thing is, this apparently isn't the first such murder, just the most obvious—partly because I was there to observe this one as I haven't been previously.

I was approached by a man named Eltrys who arranged by note for me to meet him at the Temple of Talos. Needless to say, I was careful making _that_ appointment. Please note that I've sent you all the relevant notes for your perusal. Perhaps they can be useful in future.

In short, Eltrys revealed to me—and on no better recommendation than because I was first into the fray and 'couldn't possibly be a part of it all'—that some kind of conspiracy had taken root in Markarth since the Dragonborn's ruckus. His information was shaky at best, but given the circumstances I was inclined to accept the possibility he wasn't seeing specters.

Even the guards in Riften aren't that slow to respond to an attack in broad daylight in the middle of the marketplace. If _I_ tried something like that, I'd be on the ground or dead before you can say 'heads up.'

Eltrys had the name of the attacker, as well as the name of the victim and where she was staying.

Margret was a woman of means, as she'd paid up-front for the best room at the Silver-Blood Inn. I left her things alone, barring a few pages from her journal. I have the full document with me and will send it when I can, but I felt it best to forward the pages I believe immediately useful.

-L-

 _(Appended: Excerpt, journal of Margret of Markarth)_

 _Meeting at the Treasury House later today. Took them long enough. These people act like they own everything._

 _Thonar Silver-Blood is the younger brother, but he's obviously the one in charge. Makes all the deals, bullies local landowners into selling to him. Even employs that wispy girl at the door to deter 'trouble-makers' like me._

 _General Tullius is growing impatient, but I'll bring back the deed to Cidhna Mine. On my life, I won't allow a group of Stormcloak sympathizers to own the prison to the most notorious criminals of the Reach. They say no one escapes. Why? Is it really that secure?_

 _Maybe I've played my hand too soon by rushing the confrontation with Thonar. There are shadows around every corner in this city, and I know I'm being watched._

-L-

[Letter from Vorstag, continued.]

The Silver-Bloods, as you know, are the first family in Markarth—rich, powerful, obnoxious. They own the Inn, Cidhna Mine, and apparently have… ideas.

Having investigated Margret as best I could, I moved on to the attacker or, rather, to his habitation. Like most of the free workers having to do with the mine, he lived in a place called the Warrens (and for good reason). It says something about the Silver-Blood family, the squalor in which their 'free' workers live.

Regardless of moral or ethical considerations, see the appended:

-L-

 _(Appended: Note to Weylin of Markarth to Nepos (identity ascertained ex post facto))_

 _Weylin,_

 _You've been chosen to strike fear in the heart of the Nords. Go to the market tomorrow. You will know what to do._

 _-N_

-L-

[Letter from Vorstag, continued.]

I had two names: Thonar Silver-Blood and the mysterious N (later revealed to be Nepos, and I shall use that name henceforth for simplicity's sake).

No sooner was I out of the Warrens than a man approached me with threats most predictable. My meddling had not, despite my efforts, gone unnoticed. Needless to say, it takes more than some thug without the element of surprise to cause me more than mild concern and a few bruises.

The fact that the man assaulted me in broad daylight without the guards popping up to take him into custody in hopes that he can pay his way out of trouble (or with the indifference a stint in Cidhna Mine produces) was telling. There was, apparently, some truth to Eltrys' concerns.

It did not take much to wring a name out of the thug—a name which was substantiated by papers removed from his person before his eyes rolled back and the guard came sailing in. I think they might have arrested me on the spot had the attack taken place somewhere less public.

-L-

 _(Appended: Note found on the body of Dryston of Markarth*)_

 _Dryston,_

 _Got to deal with a certain nosy resident of the city. Nepos the Nose wants him roughed up in the usual way, but I can grab a pint at the Silver-Blood Inn afterwards._

 _Should be easy._

-L-

[Letter from Vorstag, continued.]

As you may or may not know, Nepos was the city administrator many years ago. An old man, he lives an opulent lifestyle… and remains virtually in seclusion. Not that this is incriminating of itself, but being surrounded by _his people_ while conducting an investigation into things people clearly want quiet…

Given the choice between speaking with Nepos on his home grounds versus polite inquiry into Thonar, I opted to go with Thonar.

It didn't go well—for some less than others.

Apparently the Foresworn have more agents than anyone appreciated: two of Thonar's servants proved to be Reachmen placed close to him, murdering his wife and—but for my quick intervention—would have murdered him, too. It was clear that discretion was not something these two concerned themselves with.

Given my association with you, I won't be employing any servants from Markarth (I'll explain why it's a concern in due course).

As Thonar confessed to me, Madanach isn't only one person's tool. It was Thonar who arranged Madanach's incarceration in Cidhna Mine all those years ago—incarceration rather than execution in return for Madanach keeping his men in line and making them useful to Thonar. Unfortunately, Madanach seems to be slipping his leash.

It took some effort, but I did _convince_ Thonar that if anything happened to me, this scandal would explode in his face. I made copies of all the documents I've forwarded to you and keep them here. They'll be released to the Jarl and to Thongvar should anything happen to me.

Because Thongvar is a political creature, you can imagine how he would react to learning how closely his brother has been in it with the Forsworn. This pressure, combined with an assurance that I had a good idea how to put pressure on Madanach's voice in Markarth—before things got really out of hand and Thonar was incriminated to the point of no one being able to look the other way—produced results.

Thonar wasn't happy but one could see it in his eyes: _take care of my problem and I'll take care of you_. And when I say 'take care' I mean ' take care.'

My next visit was to Nepos the Nose, as might be expected. The old man was courteous at first… and things ended in violence. Before he (and his household) decided I knew too much, I gleaned the following: he's been handing off Madanach's orders (I apologize for not discovering how communications pass) for some twenty years. I believe him when he said he'd tired of his role—sending the young to their deaths—but he still put up a fight when the time came, as if he continued to believe in his cause and his place in it. 'Necessary deaths' he said. Nepos did seem to think that Madanach could inspire chaos in the city should he desire to do so. I don't know how valuable that would be, though I regret not being able to convey Nepos to you (or you to Nepos).

Needless to say, the conversation ended in a fight from which I walked away.

-L-

 _(Appended: Excerpt, Journal of Nepos 'the Nose')_

 _I grow guilt-ridden in my old age. So many of the young sent to their deaths. All in the name of the Forsworn. All in the name of Madanach._

 _My king. Who watches us from behind the iron bars of Cidhna Mine. How long have I served you? Since the uprising against the Nords? Was there ever a time when all that violence hasn't over-shadowed our destinies?_

 _What choice do I have but to do as I am instructed?_

-L-

[Letter from Vorstag, continued.]

I discovered that Eltrys had been murdered, but avoided the trap that would undoubtedly have claimed my life as well.

This being known, I went back to Thonar and explained his situation: that I had enough information to go to his brother and expose to Thongvar what a potential political embarrassment (and a definite liability) Thonar had become. I submitted for his perusal the documents I've sent to you (and of which I have retained copies). I also laid out the confessions Nepos made which, in conjunction with the rest of the information I possessed created quite a club for blackmail purposes.

Through Thonar, who went to his brother, I've been granted the position of Thane of Markarth with all the perks and duties relating to it. I don't know what Thongvar thinks about this, but he took it to the Jarl and I was apprised of the honor the day before yesterday.

Thonar himself is no longer a threat: Madanach escaped Cidhna Mine last night and apparently Thonar was there to meet him. Thonar did not survive the confrontation. So the King in Rags is now loose and ready to wreak havoc. I remain the only living person in Markarth with knowledge of the now-defunct 'Forsworn Conspiracy' and await any advice or instructions you please to give.

Our mutual friend and I arranged a series of dead drops should he need to contact you (or vice versa). Find them marked on the enclosed map; I'll try to check as frequently as I can without being conspicuous.

It is my hope to move out of the Silver-Blood Inn as quickly as possible for understandable reasons. I'll keep you apprised of any other interesting happenings in Markarth.

Yours very truly,

Vorstag

-L-

(Delivered by courier)

Rain's Hand 23

My dear Vorstag,

Congratulations on your elevation in status! Take the enclosed to Arnleif and Sons to pay for improved lodging—so much more useful than my good wishes, don't you think? If I remember correctly, there is a house called Vlindril Hall which is well-situated and quite charming in Markarth's way.

Yours,

Lady Grey

-L-

"You've been busy," Ulfric said, handing the sheaf of papers back to me.

"Or rather my agents have," I agreed, slipping the papers back into their protective case.

"And you think your man in Markarth is secure?"

"Reasonably. Thonar is dead. Thongvar doesn't know anything about the nature of their relationship. And even if he had reason to persecute my man, my man knows how to take care of himself."

"And if he can't?" Ulfric watched me shrewdly as he disappeared behind his glass of wine.

"Then he'll be dead, and I'll have to find a new man. It would be most inconvenient, but I have the necessary dead drops and one can't know every face in Skyrim." I know better than to ask Wuunferth to make more necklaces like mine… and I wonder what the Thalmor have as an answer to it.

"What else?"

"The emperor is coming to Skyrim."

Ulfric stopped his glass halfway to his mouth. "How do you know?"

"Because while he wouldn't show up for Vittoria's wedding he would show up for her murder. She's his first cousin. There are no suspects. Faulty stonework is the cause of death but I've seen the stonework of Solitude and the Temple of the Divines is kept in excellent condition. The only way stonework mysteriously tumbles is if it is pushed. So someone was there to do it." My nerves tingled. "And I never received a satisfactory answer about that exotic poison. It's not the sort of thing I would expect for a low-profile killing. Why waste time and energy getting something from out of country when there are so many native herbs?"

"I don't like where this is going."

Nor do I. "The Emperor will stay in Solitude. His Penitus Oculatus won't let him go anywhere near a Hold that's even remotely sympathetic to you. No, he's most at risk from whoever killed Vittoria or from the Thalmor—assuming they are't one and the same but I don't think so."

"No?"

"When Skyrim's difficulties are progressing so well? No. While we're fighting each other we're not fighting them. While we tear our Province apart we're not preparing for the future. And when we've finished with one another," I swept the bric-a-brac off the small table beside the chair I'd abandoned. "Why give us a reason to reunify?" I leaned over, collecting the things I'd pushed onto the floor and putting them back. "More interestingly, I'm forming plans about Falkreath."

"Already? You don't think your plans are… precipitous to my war?" Ulfric asked, sounding caught between amusement and disapproval.

"My lord can certainly opt to use Galmar as a hammer just as easily as he can prefer my more delicate approach. I do, of course, know very little about military matters."

Silence followed except for Ulfric tapping the base of his goblet against the table by his chair. "Tell me."

"I think Siddgeir has been a very bad boy. The bandits plaguing Falkreath? His men—more or less. The shop, Grey Pine Goods? Possibly fencing what the bandits stole. The voice of reason stifled by taxes. The steward reduced to fudging numbers in the Jarl's ledger in order to keep the Hold afloat? Without a very responsible manager, Falkreath will find itself defunct. And Markarth, Whiterun, and the Rift will happily annex chunks of it. I don't believe in even numbers when it comes to politics."

"You think it's really that bad?"

"I stole a glimpse of Nenya's ledger the first chance I got—the real one, not the one she shows the Jarl." I sipped my wine. I do feel a bit bad about snooping like that, but what can I say? Information is what it is. "From what I've seen, I believe re-appointing Dengeir is a mistake. I've seen the man socially, he's not playing with all his cards. He doesn't trust anyone but Tekla, his maid, and even then not by much."

By now, Ulfric had gone very silent. When I looked, I found him glowering. "Dengeir is a good man."

"I never said he wasn't. I said he wasn't a good choice for leadership. The two are not mutually exclusive."

"Your plan to shuffle Laila aside has been rendered useless by that Black-Briar woman."

"And I've got Madame in a corner from which she will not escape. That doesn't—"

"Enough," Ulfric held up a hand, and I held my tongue. "We're to be in Ivarstead for this peace summit of the Dragonborn's."

"Yes, my lord."

He frowned, as if he found my acquiescence irritating. "You're to be there by the first, if you—for whatever reason—can't make the journey with us."

"I will endeavor to be ready when you leave. Otherwise, I won't fail to be there when required."

Ulfric sighed heavily. "Good _night_ , Leandra."

"Pleasant dreams, my lord." I answered, paying him a slight reverence before leaving the room. There's time to work on him with regards to Dengeir. And if he won't see reason, I'll need a backup plan. There's no way I'm going to let Falkreath fall apart because of mismanagement and the Comrades Club.

"One more thing."

I stopped where I stood, then turned around. "My lord?"

"Whiterun."

"Everything is in place that needs to be in place. Shall I brief you now?"

For a moment I thought he would say 'yes' since before now everything has been in terms of 'almost.' "No, no. I know I'm keeping you rather late."

It was true and I can't say I didn't feel mildly resentful. It had been terribly painless to… make arrangements… this afternoon. I think Ralof rather saved things by asking if he might 'call on me' this evening. The wording was perfectly ambiguous, but the look that came with it told me he had no expectations whatsoever. He'd be content with an evening of simple conversation.

As if I'd tell him no, but I appreciate his delicacy.

He'd have been scandalized, I think, if I'd been the one to ask. In my mind I'd couched it more or less ' _would it be absolutely whorish to ask for your company this evening?_ '

He's a good man. And a kind one. Imagine my shock to see some of my own relief—that absence and time hadn't had a negative effect—reflected back at me when I told him I was about to ask him more or less the same thing.

He's a good man. And a kind one. Such things are _grossly_ underrated.

-L-

We'd had several evenings together, Ralof and I, the last time we were both in Windhelm. If time hadn't dulled interest, it hadn't dulled memory either. Memory of how he felt in my arms. Of how I felt enveloped in his. Where he liked to be kissed aside from the mouth.

And then, while sliding his tunic off over his head, my fingers tangled on a chain… a chain attached to a round pendant. The metal was warm, so he'd been wearing it for some time.

I flung the tunic aside, fingers of both hands going to the pendent and 'seeing' it through touch.

Ralof's hands immediately closed around my own, though his grip didn't prevent me from registering what it was I had under my hands.

He hadn't been wearing it last time.

My innards clenched so tightly that I began to shake. A scream threatened to claw its way out of my throat, and only will kept it in check.

Beneath my fingers was the unmistakable pendant of knotwork around a small round gem. An Amulet of Mara.

"It's nothing, Leandra," Ralof said gently, hands running along my arms to cup my shoulders.

"Nothing," I repeated, holding the amulet in both hands until the edges cut into my palms. It was the biting sensation that allowed me to keep my voice level and neutral, to stop the shaking that threatened to continue.

I didn't do me any good to close my eyes. It was dark, and the amulet was too real in my hands, heavy and… strangely threatening. An evening of charming conversation, a good dinner and the promise of… well… left me blissfully able to put aside my usual morose thoughts—the certainty that our relationship won't, can't last forever. That I'm not really good for him, but am too selfish to let go. That one day he'll wake up to the fact that I am what I am—murderous, perfidious, conniving. I don't want to ruin his life. I don't want him to be trapped with me.

So I'm quite selfish… but not wholly so. Otherwise I'd say yes. Because, of course, one only wears an Amulet of Mara when one is looking for a spouse. It's how, in Skyrim, you let someone know you're in/on the market. But I wouldn't say it's uncommon to arrange for someone, only one special someone, to know.

I forced myself to let go of the pendant, fingers slipping down his torso to catch at his waistband. The pendant dug into my forehead when I leaned forward to rest my brow on his chest.

"Nothing in the world," he answered gently, coaxing my head back so he could kiss my brow—ironically, or perhaps not so much so, where the jewel and knotwork had begun to dig into the flesh. "It's nothing. Until it is." His tone suggested he could wait forever if that was what I needed, that nothing would change in the meantime. It might cause me discomfort to know what was in his mind… but clearly he felt it was better to be up-front about it. Honest, if I could use the word.

Part of me wanted to scream. It would be so easy to say 'yes, it is something.' But it would be cruel in the long run. And I'm not that horrible.

Swallowing hard, I tried to keep the confused tangle of my emotions out of my voice. "You know… it's been a long trip from Whiterun here…" the laugh that came out was perfect, a little brittle, rueful, definitely over-emotional. "I think I'm more tired than I thought."

Ralof took my hands as well as a step back, giving me a little space. "Do you still want me to stay?"

I was glad it was dark. My eyes started stinging. "Please." As if I'd send him away.

And I knew he wouldn't blame me if I did, just as I wouldn't blame him when he decided enough was enough.

"You're… a good man, Ralof," I offered quietly, once we were settled. "Thank you."

He kissed the nape of my neck, fingers lacing with mine. He didn't say the words, but his lips traced them against my skin: _I love you._

Don't. Just… don't. Please.

-L-

Morning was morning, and I felt wholly out of sorts. In a world ordered to my convenience, I would have simply pleaded indisposition and stayed in bed all day. Unfortunately (for me) the world does not so order itself, which meant I had more mail to go through, a meeting with Ulfric and Galmar, a little idea about tensions in the city, and I wanted to look into the hints Mother dropped about a problem with our branch of the East Empire Company. I pull in revenues from my work and offer a tithe to the Jarl as is only proper, but a Hold should be self-sufficient and not simply scraping by. I should probably make tactful inquiries of Jorleif how things stand.

More than that, I needed a way to handle Dengeir of Ulfric point-blank refused to see sense. I can't just assassinate him—not only would it be too obvious, and damaging to my plans and position, but assassination is a tool and not a crutch. Killing people, the act in and of itself, isn't difficult. Still, best not to rely on the mindset 'get in my way, I'll get you out of it—and out of this world.' It's wasteful.

Ralof shifted, breaking the brisk click of my thoughts. The morning light caught on the chain about his neck (the pendant having slipped sideways and out of sight). I must have been more tired last night than I thought; today, I could regard the thing, what it symbolized, and what it meant, with more dispassion and less… well. I didn't feel like I wanted to scream and recoil.

It won't work. It can't work. Good men don't do well with people in my line of work; work comes home.

"You're up early," Ralof announced, moving his mouth as little as possible, but cracking one silvery eye.

"I'm not up early, I just haven't bothered to wake you. Svana's holding breakfast." And was far too amused, that girl; but the thought was fond more than anything. She's a delightful girl and I really couldn't have brought on a better maid. I think she's been gossiping in the palace's kitchens. Some of the things she tries out. Interesting if not always delicious, but more often than not a pleasure to eat.

"She's a good girl," Ralof agreed, sitting up and stretching. I watched the play of muscle in his shoulders, and silence descended. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it was expectant.

"I'm sorry about last night." It was the only thing I could think of to say. I drew up my knees and rested my elbows on them, forehead against my clasped hands.

Warm fingers appeared at the nape of my neck and began tracing a looping pattern along the length of my spine. "Don't apologize. I didn't expect to upset you… but I didn't expect an immediate answer, either."

Nor did I give one.

"I just wanted you to know." The pattern along my back became a hand with outstretched fingers that ran comforting back up my back. "I won't wear it if it distresses you, but the offer stands."

I opened my eyes, turning my head so I could study him rather than the darkness behind my eyelids. He looked so earnest and concerned that for several moments I didn't know that to do. I must have looked as lost as I felt, for he cupped my cheek and kissed the other.

This can't be healthy. There's something _wrong_ with me. Why am I the only one who sees that? And why can't I do the right thing?

Suddenly he straightened, then with one jerk, yanked the talisman off. The catch would need to be repaired, and without thinking about it I ran through the list of jewelers I knew who could do it. Ralof held the amulet out to me. "Hold onto it. If it ever means more than an offer, give it back to me."

"And if you ask for it back, I'll understand."

A crease formed between Ralof's brows, but vanished again.

I took the pendant and put it on my bedside table. "It's not you—"

Ralof, perhaps most wisely, ended the conversation by snatching a kiss from me, a chaste thing that left him smirking and me pouting.

"That's not much of a good-morning kiss."

"Too bad we slept in and there's no time for demonstrations of how to do it right."

What could I do? So I laughed, as I was meant to, and did so genuinely.

-J-

Author's Note:

* Although the in-game note is from Dryston to a 'Friend', he is the one who attacks you outside the Warrens. This is a little creative license on my part.


	33. Chapter 33

Thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this chapter!

-L-

(Delivered by courier)

Rain's Hand 24

Windhelm Garrison

Dear Gerdur,

I seem to need another of those little explanations. Her eyes and, er… little evidences… scream one thing, distract her enough and everything's fine. But if it's not enough it's like she's in pain. I love her, but I don't know how to fix this. It's not something I can just leave alone. Maybe you can give me some insight.

The weather is finally easing up.

Yours,

Ralof

-L-

"I wouldn't worry about our solvency," Jorleif said as I perused the city ledger. "We're not Solitude or Markarth, but we do well enough."

"So I see." What I saw was a shift in taxes on shipping, the East Empire Company paying lower and lower, while the Shatter-Shields paid more and more. This says that one is seeing an increase of business while the other sees a decrease. However, the total of taxes was lower than it should have been with two healthy companies in competition.

Mother's letter certainly had some interesting information in it.

"Is there something you're looking for?"

"A reason why the main hall is so atrocious. I thought perhaps the Hold couldn't afford to dress it up a bit," I answered offhandedly. It's true enough.

"It's been a while since we had a lady in residence," Jorleif agreed with a shrug.

Technically I do have quarters within the palace. I don't doubt I'll need them eventually.

"It's not particularly high on Ulfric's list of concerns." It should be a little higher, though.

"It's not his job."

I laughed at this, looking over at the steward. His grin was suggestive to the point of speaking for itself: he'd back me up if need be, because the hall really did need some help. "I… _might_ be able to make a few suggestions. Nothing extravagant just…" I waved a finger. And I know a few people in business so I won't break the treasury, either. "Too bad our Jarl isn't a dragon-slayer. I could hang a skull over his throne."

"There's a picture," Jorleif chuckled.

"I'll make some notes. At the very least get new banners." As I've said before, the Blue Palace would be an austere place if not for the elegant décor. This may be a bachelor's hall, but it doesn't have to take things to _this_ extreme.

Jorleif nodded his approval.

Well, well, well. Who'd have thought I'd have someone agree with me?

-L-

(Delivered by courier)

Rain's Hand 26

Riverwood

Dear Ralof,

I honestly don't know what to say. It sounds to me like someone hurt her before, like she's going to have to learn how to trust all over again. Not that you've told me much to go on, so I could be wildly mistaken. You may end up dealing with the consequences of that—which could be a very long, drawn-out, involved process. I'm not trying to set you against the idea, or the girl, I do want you to be happy, I just think you should consider the implications. It might be kinder to the girl to leave her be, in case you… turn out not to be right for her. Just a thought. You did ask me for them.

Love,

Gerdur

-L-

The Throat of the World was a cold pinnacle of stone with High Hrothgar perched on a shoulder like a pet bird on the shoulder of a person. The monastery's stonework seemed to huddle where it broke away from its rocky grounds.

Imperials, Thalmor and Stormcloaks climbed in relative silence, casting one another nasty looks when they could. The bulk of servants and attendants remained in Ivarstead, those unlucky souls to move between High Hrothgar during the day and Ivarstead at night in order to serve their masters without overcrowding the courtyard where we'd been quartered.

The tents of varying factions lent a welcome dose of color to the greys of stone: the dark gold-edged round tents of the Thalmor, the square, peaked-topped ruddy-toned tents of the Legion, the large tent with its silk dressings in Solitude crimson (which was almost a small house), Whiterun's yellow silk thrown over the square, flat-topped tents common to Skyrim, and Ulfric's in Windhelm blue. Above the red, yellow, and blue tents flew pennants with each Hold's individual seal.

I was housed with Ulfric and Galmar, albeit in a smaller tent, an independent unit but set close enough to the main tent so as not to matter.

Mjoll stood outside to ensure no one interrupted us, while Ralof and his crew—ostensibly security for the Jarl, but I think Ulfric had a good idea that Ralof had personal reasons for concerning himself with my safety—waited in Ivarstead. Ulfric brought a very light retinue, as did Balgruuf and Tullius.

Between Elisif and the Thalmor, they brought a veritable senate.

Ulfric brought Galmar, but he also brought me for 'my outsider's eye and unique perspective.' I was glad not to be left out; it meant I could grill him about proceedings before he could forget too much. Naturally, I had his assurance that his memory was quite good, but I tend not to take that sort of thing as a reliable representation.

We'd all have perfect memory if we could.

Unfortunately for me, only two representatives were allowed into the Summit itself. Predictably, Ulfric took Galmar and I didn't blame him. People would ask uncomfortable questions if he suddenly produced me and no one wants that just now.

So I mingled and listened. Servants had been picked so those giving orders would not confuse theirs with someone else's (and thereby end up with poison instead of _poisson_ , as the saying goes).

When the Summit let out, incredibly early to my mind, I was back in the Windhelm delegation's tent, with wine and a light lunch in place. It's a domestic job to ensure such things are organized, but hardly a taxing one. Besides, eating marvelously stimulates thinking. Hence 'never think while you're hungry.'

Ulfric irritably flung his mantle aside to land in a sad heap on the floor. It was clear he'd been somewhere warmer than was comfortable, as he dropped into a folding chair—most of the furniture was of the folding sort, easier to move than some of the solid furniture I saw among other parties' belongings—before grabbing a goblet, filling it with water, and throwing it down. He did so again. Then grabbed a sandwich which disappeared without ado. As did a second and third.

"Long day I see," I noted, re-filling his and Galmar's glasses halfway with wine and the rest of the way with water once they'd both slowed down. It doesn't do to drink too much.

"I'd send you in to deal with this rubbish if I could," Ulfric growled, pinching the bridge of his nose before tossing back his watered wine, which I refilled.

I'll take that as a compliment.

"There were five… perhaps six… distinct parties: us, the Thalmor, the Imperials, Whiterun and the Dragonborn, and Elisif."

"You said _perhaps six_."

"I'm not sure if we should count Elisif as part of the Dragonborn's faction," Ulfric answered, picking up another sandwich. This one disappeared more slowly, thoughtfully, so I got up and brought over the small tray of pie pockets (I didn't know what else to call them). He reached for a pie pocket but, with an expression of a man facing discipline, took another sandwich. The expression would have done a little boy credit and was simply strange to see.

"Tell me, as best you can," I said, closing my eyes and preparing to visualize as he spoke. Here's hoping his memory is as good as he thinks.

-L-

(The narrative of Ulfric Stormcloak—the reader may decide which details are spoken aloud and which remain in his head as periphery.)

The meeting room was stuffy, filled with too many bodies. Personal fragrances mingled cloyingly and left me wishing for a window to open.

The Dragonborn, wearing a sort of scarf or hood in Whiterun yellow, with a pin in the shape of a horse's head as on that Hold's seal, sat at the back of the room, the head of the table, flanked by the housecarl she brought with her to Windhelm and a High Elf I'd never seen before. She was also wearing a dagger, which I'd seen earlier, twin to the one Balgruuf carried.

[ _His name is Artherius. He's something of a companion to her. She took him to Solitude and left her Housecarl at the Winking Skeever—reverse of what she did in Windhelm. But continue._ ]

Sitting opposite the Dragonborn was Arngeir. It was odd seeing him and the others again. It was odd just being back at High Hrothgar. Full of old ghosts. I hadn't counted on that.

The chairs around the table were placed so close together as to leave little elbow room. The table was never meant to seat so many people, and there was something odd about the room. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

We sat on the Dragonborn's right with the Blades; the Imperial pack, their Thalmor handlers, and Balgruuf sat on her left. I think Balgruuf was only on that side of the table since there was an odd number of delegations and it would have been rude to put him on one side of Arngeir and Avenicci on the other.

Elenwen had nothing but ugly looks for Artherius, like she'd kill him with her bare hands if she could. No telling what he was thinking.

Elisif looked stony, wearing chainmail instead of a gown. Rather than regarding her lap or her hands as she usually does when she and Tullius are in conference, she watched everyone and did so with focus. Like she was mapping us out in her mind. I can't say she looked as though what she saw pleased her.

The door shut with a dull thud, leaving the room full of hostile people, all permitted to carry some kind of personal arm. Not that the Dragonborn herself needed one and I didn't miss that we were all within the area of effect should she decide to Shout at us to get our attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Dragonborn began, her voice at conversation level but carrying in the small space. "I am Bellona Dovahkiin, the Wall between you and the Dragon Menace, custodian of the Dragon Blood of Old and Keeper of the Voice—a Voice which all here are at least marginally familiar with."

She didn't look at anyone in particular, but a smug smile suggested she'd had a similar 'conversation' with Tullius as she had with me. I hope he enjoys picking the matchsticks out of the tapestry.

It was her downcast eyes that brought my attention to the piece of junk suspended about her neck. It was an amulet with a smashed ruin of a pendant about the size of a man's hand and stood out darkly against her bright mail. The Dragonborn is a… decisive… woman, aware of what she says and what she does. Such was my impression. So if she's wearing that wreck there's a reason why.

A quick glance showed it meant something to Elenwen who, having delivered her nonverbal vitriol to Artherius, had begun staring at it as if she could burn a hole in the Dragonborn's chest and take care of two problems at once, pupils tiny in her golden eyes. It was odd that she didn't even seem to be trying to keep her thoughts—or some of them—off her sallow face.

"And I have called you here, in good faith, to discuss a temporary cessation of hostilities between your factions until the threat of Alduin World-Eater—first among dragon-kind, a myth no longer—has been abolished." This said, the Dragonborn sat down and looked at us all expectantly.

Alduin. The whole speech brought back that day at Helgen and creeping unease. Alduin belongs to Skyrim's history, a specter half-story, half-reality, whose return means nothing good for anyone. My guts shuddered, wondering which parts of the lore are real and which are just embellishment and the misrepresentation of a tale told over and over again through centuries.

Nonetheless, this was a Skyrim matter, and I'd spotted the Dragonborn pulling Elenwen aside earlier. The two women spoke a few words and the Dragonborn departed leaving Elenwen utterly livid—no love lost there.

"The witch-elf must leave," I announced testingly. "I'll not negotiate under an inquisitor's nose."

The Dragonborn exhaled softly, turning her attention to Elenwen. Something nonverbal passed between them, ending in arched eyebrows from the Dargonborn and Elenwen turning her ugly look to the table, as if being shunted into doing something she didn't want to do.

The Dragonborn apparently got her hand around the elf's throat and had begun to squeeze. Did it matter, I wonder, whether I moved to have Elenwen ejected or would anyone have done? Or was it something I particularly was expected to do so the Dragonborn didn't have to?

"She's part of the Imperial delegation," Tullius snapped. As most of us had, he refused to take a seat just yet.

I leaned on the back of my chair, grinning at him and wondering if it would be beneath my dignity to goad him a little. He certainly looks tightly wound—I think we all are. Well, if I don't do it, Rikke and Galmar can't keep their mouths shut when within shouting distance of one another.

"You can't dictate who I bring to this council."

Except he's got, what, Elisif and Falk, Elenwen and her stooge, plus himself and Rikke?

I brought Galmar. Yes, this is a well-balanced council.

The Dragonborn remained silent, blue eyes darting about, observing, measuring, taking advantage of the tensions and animosities in the room to let us show ourselves while airing our grievances to one another. The attentiveness was mirrored, and perhaps better applied, by Artherius. His eyes were downcast, but I had the distinct impression he was drinking in the whole meeting in hopes of squeezing a few drops out of it that the Dragonborn might have missed.

Damn elves.

I immediately wiped the idea of antagonizing Tullius for sport's sake out of my mind and the smile off my face.

"Please," Arngeir broke in with his strong voice—a voice too strong, really, for a man so old and frail. "If we have to negotiate the terms of the negotiation, we will get _nowhere_. Perhaps this would be a good time to ask the Dragonborn for her opinion on the matter?" He gave the Dragonborn a look indicating he wasn't any happier about this Summit and its invitees than anyone else was.

Frankly, I'm amazed she convinced him to let half of us set foot on this mountain. I might be tolerated (though perhaps not _welcomed_ ) but none of the others have any reason to be here. No good reason, anyway.

Delphine, I suddenly noticed, looked about as sour as Elewen, while Esbern (I had to grope for his name) looked excited and oblivious to his comrade's discomfort. It's odd, come to think of it, for Delphine to be so quiet. The old woman likes to run her mouth.

Well, I suppose I started testing the waters… "By Ysmir's beard! The nerve of these Imperial bastards."

The Dragonborn met my eyes when I looked to her, an unwavering, almost unblinking display of bright blue, like the glass ornamenting the neck and cuffs of her mail. It was uncanny, looking into that blue stare, like looking at a blazing flame from behind a blue lens.

"I will not sit down at the same table as that… Thalmor bitch. Either she walks, or I do."

"There is no excuse, thus far, for rudeness, Jarl Ulfric," the Dragonborn returned mildly. She waited a few beats for the words to sink in before turning her attention to Tullius.

It was the strangest feeling, the sense of relief when she redirected her attention, as if I'd been suddenly masked from view of something big, dangerous, and in no angelic temper.

"General Tullius," the Dragonborn continued in that same calm politeness, "inclusion of Ambassador Elenwen and her aide raises your faction to four persons."

Four? There are six—Elenwen, her aid, Tullius, Rikke, Elisif, and Falk. We can all count.

Unless… why invite Elisif when everyone knows Tullius handles most things on her behalf? Strangely out of place, diamonds and sapphires glittered against Elisif's mail. The blue contrasted with the rich red of Solitude and Elisif is a woman who pays attention to how she presents herself. She'd never select jewels that didn't match what she was wearing.

So why this necklace?

"To maintain the arrangements already made, two people would need to leave this table. Obviously, I cannot have _you_ removed from this conversation, as the only representative for the Imperial legion."

And it would be rude, I assume, to ask him and Elenwen to give up their aides.

"That aside, this should be considered a purely domestic matter, Ambassador." The Dragonborn spoke politely, but there was no mistaking the dismissal she would not permit to be argued. The question was how hard Elenwen would argue because there's no way she'd let something like this Summit progress without her supervision. "There is no need to waste your time with it."

Elenwen's composure was thin as she spoke. "Very well then." She made it a point not to look at the Dragonborn, with the result that she regarded her own hands. She didn't curl them into fists, but the way her fingers twitched I suspected she would have liked to. "The Thalmor will treat with whatever government rules Skyrim. We would not think of interfering in your… _domestic matters._ "

Mammoth-shit. The Thalmor do nothing _but_ meddle.

Elenwen gave Tullius a hard look, then withdrew.

It suddenly occurred to me what was odd about the room. Chairs for Elenwen and her aide hadn't been included. With her gone, the number of seats and the number of people was equal.

"Skyrim will never lick the Thalmor's boots," Galmar barked as Elenwen withdrew to leave. "Not like your Imperial friends here."

Elenwen checked her pace, but didn't respond. She simply left the room.

"You're lucky I respect the Greybeards' council, Glamar!" Rikke snapped.

Good idea for the Dragonborn, putting the Stormcloaks and the Empire on opposite sides of the table. Hard for a fight to break out with such an obstacle between them.

I rolled my shoulders. The room was hot and suffocating to begin with, but by now I'd begun to feel it.

"Legate," Tullius snapped. "We represent the Emperor, here."

Of course they do.

"Sorry, sir," Rikke answered, bowing her head. Her eyes remained fixed on Galmar who either didn't notice or didn't care. Then, when Tullius cleared his throat. "It won't happen again."

Of course it won't.

The Dragonborn waited until Master Einarth, who escorted Elenwen out, shut the door and resumed his place. "Now, before we go any further please," she indicated the chairs, "Everyone sit down. This is a negotiation, not a battlefield." Her tone suggested she expected skirmishes, however.

"Let us hope it remains so," Elisif said simply before sitting primly down. The heat left her apple-blossom complexion unusually flush, which made her eyes seem to gleam in their sockets. There was something authoritative in the series of gestures that left her regarding the Dragonborn with open neutrality.

As one might regard a foreign dignitary.

This smells bad, and it has nothing to do with fragrances (lessened with the withdrawal of the Thalmor) and this damnable heat. "I have something to say before we begin," I declared.

"Of course he does," Elisif murmured, just loudly enough to be heard, leveling a gaze full of daggers in my direction.

It was necessary. That's all I say about it, that's all I've ever said about it: his death was _necessary_.

""I _knew_ he wouldn't be able to resist," Rikke sneered, a bead of sweat sliding along her neck.

Tullius gave a short sound telling her wordlessly to shut up.

Beats me how the Greybeards in those heavy robes aren't stifling in the heat like the rest of us.

"We're here to arrange a temporary truce to allow the Dragonborn to deal with the dragons. Nothing more… I consider even talking to the Empire a generous gesture."

The Dragonborn remained utterly silent, pale face impassive as she studied Balgruuf, who looked irritable. Now he's a man with a temper and this heat won't do it any good.

"Are you done posturing yet?" Tullius asked grimly, his lip curling. "Did you come here to make speeches or can we get down to business?"

He had a point, and I hated that he had such a valid one. Still, if I hadn't said something like that, someone else would have.

"Yes. Let's get this over with." I pulled out my chair and dropped into it. The stone was cool for a few moments, but only for precious few.

It was Arngeir who spoke next, at a nod from the Dragonborn. "Jarl Ulfric."

It took effort to look him in the face and not to bite my lip like I used to do. In spite of the neutral cordiality, I could hear the underlying disappointment. I don't feel guilt over leaving. I do feel regret over having disappointed him so badly. But what's done is long since done.

"General Tullius. Jarl Elisif. Jarl Balgruuf."

Damn fur mantle. I should have left the damn thing in the damn tent.

"This council is unprecedented. We are, _all of us_ , gathered here at the _Dragonborn's_ request," Arngeir said, carefully enunciating _all of us_ and _Dragonborn's—_ the Dragonborn ignored the inflection.

So we're all to be miserable amongst miserable company. Good to know.

"I ask that you respect the spirit of High Hrothgar and do your best to begin the process of achieving lasting peace in Skyrim."

Grim silence met this. It was odd, though, since the Dragonborn hasn't given me to believe at any time that she's looking to stop the Civil War. In fact, I've had the distinct impressions she's going to let us bludgeon on one another until we've had enough or are too tired and bloodied to do anything but listen to her.

"Who would like to open negotiations?" Arngeir asked.

"Jarl Ulfric," the Dragonborn called after a considerable pause. "You have a great deal to say, I think." It was a polite invitation, nothing more.

With Whiterun already set up to fall (and a siege if Leandra's plans fall through, grandiose as they are) and Falkreath being a work in progress, there was only one thing to do. "We want control of Markarth. That's our price for agreeing to a truce."

Rikke let out a low, drawn out 'kh' as she leaned on the table. "So that's why you're here, Ulfric?" she prodded. "You dare insult the Dragonborn by using this council to advance your own position?"

 _I_ insult _her_? Rikke, who's sold out her heritage and seeks to use Skyrim as a crutch for a failed empire? That's rich. She's been out of Skyrim so long she doesn't even believe in the Dragonborn as anything more than a folktale.

"And if the Dragonborn had asked your beloved General Tullius to open remarks, he'd have advanced a similar request," I answered, trying and not entirely succeeded in not snapping at her. "Markarth is a valuable city for many reasons." Tactical and sentimental—if I can call it that.

And Madanach's harassing it. I've assurances that he can be removed at any time, but requests to leave him alone, to let the Empire be troubled by him.

"You can't _seriously_ expect us to give up Markarth!" Tullius sputtered indignantly.

It took almost as much effort not to grin at his appalled discomfort as it had not to snap at Rikke.

"You're just hoping to gain in council what you've been unable to take in battle!"

Give me time.

Tullius' eyes made a silent appeal to the Dragonborn.

"I'm sure Jarl Ulfric doesn't expect something for nothing," Arngeir put in when the Dragonborn remained silent and impassive.

For a woman who called this stupid summit, she's got remarkably little to say. I thought her a woman of action and decisiveness. I begin to think I gave her too much credit.

"Yes," Rikke taunted, "that'd be _entirely_ out of character."

"Rikke," Tullius growled softly. "This _isn't_ helping."

'Woof woof' I mouthed. It was a little juvenile, but it caused a flush to jump from Rikke's neck to the roots of her hair.

"Rikke. Do you have a map of the Province?" Tullius asked quellingly.

Elisif took a soft gasp. "Wait a moment!" she broke in, her voice sharp to start, but quickly moderated. "General, you don't intend to just hand over Markarth to that… that…" she seemed to grope for something sufficiently venomous to throw at me. Perhaps it's fortunate there are no water glasses on this table. Otherwise I might have to find one flying at my head. " _Traitor_."

Funny how the definition changes depending on where you stand.

"I _said_ I would handle this, Elisif," Tullius said shortly.

Elisif blanched to the very lips until the discreet makeup she wore looked truly artificial.

"I don't intend to 'just do' anything, my lady." Tullius looked down at the map Rikke had so handily produced.

"I would appreciate it, _General_ ," Elisif said, tone tight with rage, "if you refrained from speaking to me as if I were your daughter—"

When did she scrape together that much spunk? Maybe I wouldn't be the only one who might need to worry about flying goblets.

"—and not the Jarl of the city in which both you and the Thalmor are _guests_."

Tullius looked like she'd just smacked him. For a moment he looked at Elisif and she glared right back at him. Finally, he turned his attention away from her, but in the way of someone avoiding something unpleasant, not as a dismissal of an uncharacteristic show of temper.

Elisif continued to glower, glowing like a burning coal.

"Let me be clear: this council wasn't _my_ idea. And I believe it to be a waste of time. You are traitors to the Empire and deserve a traitor's death—" Tullius said, falling back on what was familiar directing his words to the room, then the Dragonborn, then Galmar and me each in turn.

Balgruuf smacked a hand on the table. "But we're all here, and this is not a place for bloodshed," he declared restrainedly. "So perhaps we should _all_ make a _genuine_ effort to come to some arrangement." I know it's hot in here, but normally his hackles wouldn't be up over the usual go-nowhere arguments. What's eating him?

"You say 'I have come here at the request of the Dragonborn'," Balgruuf continued, tone becoming more and more hostile, "and you say 'I respect the Greybeards' council' but I hear nothing that I have not heard a dozen times already. You both pay lip service to the Dragonborn and out hosts, but your rhetoric changes not one jot from the first time it came out of your mouths, nor has the amount of your grandstanding diminished by so much as a pause for breath. And all this with dragons burning our Holds and killing our people, with worse lurking out of sight."

For a long moment, Tullius and Balgruuf engaged in a staring contest. He should have spared his eyes: the day an Imperial flunky—even a glorified one like Tullius—successfully cows Balgruuf the Greater is the day I come back here for good. You don't get to be Jarl if you can be pushed around.

Once Tullius looked away, Elisif shot Balgruuf a grateful smile, which he more or less ignored.

"…but as I was saying, I, at least, will negotiate in good faith." Tullius sounded well and truly bludgeoned into the assurance.

One doesn't lock horns with Balgruuf and walk away unscathed. It's why he's been able to stick to his path of neutrality as long as he has. He can't dance that dance forever, though.

"Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf," the Dragonborn finally spoke up. The words, honest and polite, made several people flinch, as though they'd forgotten about her.

Balgruuf nodded truculently, but frowned at her as though they were not quite the best of friends. Or as though she'd asked him to do something he'd agreed to but wasn't happy about. Not this Summit, surely.

"Let us revisit the fact that this council was _my_ idea and pretend these well-worn tangents have not occurred."

No question what that means: _I'm getting bored._

"You are all here, you agreed to it, so let us not keep denying responsibility for it. To come only to walk out without making genuine effort would be… insulting… to me." Her blue-fire gaze swept around the table, skating harmlessly over Arngeir, Balgruuf, Elisif, and the Blades (who'd remained silent).

"My apologies, Dragonborn," Tullius jumped in. "I didn't mean to imply unwillingness to cooperate for the good of the Empire."

That's unusually—

"Since _you_ are leading these negotiations, my lady, I'd like to hear what you think Markarth is worth."

—never mind.

"Perhaps you would allow me to see your map, General, and make use of it?" the Dragonborn asked sweetly.

The map was handed over, the Dragonborn smoothing it on the table and studying it with great attention.

We waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

The heat only got worse, while Rikke and Galmar—neither very fond of the other before war broke out—had begun bristling at one another for lack of anything else to do. They're neither of them good with inaction.

Finally, the Dragonborn sighed, looking wearily from Rikke to Galmar and back. "The tempers in this room grow warm," she declared as she rolled up the map. "And I am not as militant a mind as you two gentlemen. I do need more time to consider. Ten minute recess, I think. And if we can keep our guests from fighting during that time…?" she appealed to Arngeir, who smiled.

The room was cleared in minutes. As soon as I was out of it, the cooler air seemed so thin my head went light for a moment. I hadn't realized just how stifling it was in there… and the prospect of going back in was so unpleasant it didn't bear contemplating.

-L-

Author's note: Special thanks to Griezz, who spotted an utterly embarrassing omission on my part that made Ulfric look like a real dummy. -_-;


	34. Chapter 34

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for looking over this chapter!

-L-

"We've been here considerably more than ten minutes," I frowned, opening my eyes when Ulfric fell silent.

"There was an extension until after lunch," Ulfric growled. "Right at the last minute."

"Reminding everyone she's running the show, no doubt," I answered, considering. It wasn't a bad ploy: Ulfric and Tullius are used to running their own shows, and are liable to get a little… shall we say, shortsighted?

Ulfric let me think in silence, biting morosely into a pie-pocket as he did so.

Firstly the heat: she's keeping people uncomfortable so they're eager to get out of the sweatbox. It also keeps tempers close to the surface; I noticed Ulfric did less thinking, less observing, as his narrative progressed and the heat got to him.

Secondly, the Dragonborn and her consideration of Markarth. She's attached to that city, having stirred it up as she did. If she wanted to make a bid for High Queen—which, theoretically she _could_ do, _if_ she went about it the right way—she's the type to take Markarth as capital. Solitude is the old regime. Windhelm, the Stormcloaks' (and even older regimes). Time to write a new chapter. But she won't. She won't make such a bid and she won't rearrange the war because there is no city equivalent to Markarth with its silver mines. The closest is Riften, and only because it's a major hold. Then you have to move troops and such things require oversight to ensure everyone's playing by the terms. It's too much hassle and she gives the impression of a woman who wants to be free to act quickly.

"She's not going to give anyone anything." I finally said, looking up from contemplation of my wine. "She'll play like she is, but she won't actually do it."

"You're sure?"

"Reasonably. I might be less certain if she'd picked a side, but she hasn't. She's got no reason, not one, to advance either side in this war. She's got her own. A handoff like that being proposed takes too much in terms of logistics and she's not going to slow down her campaign for the sake of one she's made no attachments to."

Galmar snorted.

"No, let her sort out Alduin," Ulfric said, holding up a hand that asked for forbearance on Galmar's part.

"Describe this amulet for me." It's a focal point, so it's probably famous.

"It's about this big," Ulfric showed me on his hand. "Diamond-shaped. The pendant is a kind of… it looks like it was once a glass shell with something in it. Blackened, now. It's got nine small jewels set around the edge."

I snorted softly. "Did you know that the sprawling line that ended in the Septim Dynasty two hundred years ago were referred to as the Dragonborn Emperors, touched in antiquity by Akatosh himself?"

A dead silence fell as the implications hit Ulfric, then Galmar.

"I can't say with certainty, but it sounds as if the Dragonborn has found the Amulet of Kings—supposedly destroyed at the end of the Oblivion Crisis."

"So what's that to us?" Galmar grunted. "An Empire's trinket—and _broken_ trinket from a broken Empire."

"It means that Ulfric has the Jagged Crown," I answered blandly.

Ulfric snorted softly. "It means symbols only have power to those who believe in them, old friend," he translated blandly.

"And it's possible she's just parading junk jewelry around in hopes of swaying opinion," Galmar protested.

"Galmar has a point. But you said it was something that caught Elenwen's attention. I believe your exact words were 'had begun staring at it as if she could burn a hole in the Dragonborn's chest and take care of two problems at once.' If it's just junk, why would Elenwen look so upset by it? The return of the Dragonborn is trouble enough for Thalmor operations in Skyrim. She's a hero, mythic before her story begins. But a Skyrim folk hero with the power to back it up as a possible candidate for the Ruby Throne? A candidate that would be seen as 'more legitimate' than the current regime because of her bloodline? What do you think that would mean for them if the Dragonborn chose to pursue such an…expansion… of her legend?"

"It means I like your Whiterun plans even better," Ulfric answered quietly, whiskey-toned eyes narrowed with speculative thought.

I had my own thoughts about this new facet of the Dragonborn. If she wants the Ruby Throne, she'll have to take it over the Thalmor's dead bodies. That's _my_ kind of work.

But not right now. Right now, Skyrim's problems. I don't want to get too far ahead of myself.

"When you go back in there, watch how she behaves towards Elisif," I said. "It might explain a little more." With the Dragonborn's backing, Elisif's claim to Skyrim's throne gets stronger. Elisif's not a wartime leader, though. Maybe the Dragonborn just wants a faction to balance against the Stormcloaks and the Imperials. Her, Balgruuf, and Elisif. They do appeal to a certain demographic.

Where are you going, Dragonborn? And does it advance my cause at all to go there with you?

Ulfric suddenly chuckled. "It did me good to see that girl put Tullius down."

"It seems she's been awakened to the fact that she's a person of consequence," I answered. "If I may advance my opinion?"

Ulfric nodded.

"All you have to do is agree to the ceasefire. That's all the Dragonborn wants. The more you wrangle, the longer it will take. She'll wear you both down eventually. You mention that one of the others, the woman, was quieter than usual?"

"I don't know Delphine well," Ulfric allowed. "I do know she likes the sound of her own voice. She was being particularly quiet."

"Who is she, though?"

Ulfric shifted. "No one, now. She used to be…" he toyed with what he wanted to say. "Something like your business. One of the Blades."

"Ah." I had to sift my early education to find them. They were the Empire's answer to the Thalmor… or would have been had they not been stamped out in short order. Before that, before the Penitus Oculatus, they protected the emperors. "Then deal with the one the Dragonborn recognizes. Treat the other like the aide."

Ulfric rolled his shoulder, made as if to lean on a backrest that wasn't there, then hunched forward before disaster occurred. "Anything else?"

I studied him closely. "Consider what you believe about Alduin. There may be a way for you to acquiesce without looking like you're backpedaling."

"What do you believe?"

The question caught me off-guard, but I knew better than to say the first thing that sprang to mind. "I think he's a threat and that the Dragonborn should be given every assistance in meeting it. It's shameful she's having to push a cart sideways when so many people have Skyrim's best interests at heart."

He asked, and I was careful to keep the wording neutral. It was an observation, not a criticism.

"You're going to cut yourself on that tongue—or those wits—of yours one of these days," Ulfric observed, giving me a look that might have been morose respect… or morose weariness for a slippery character.

I opened my mouth, then smilingly, pursed my lips and arched my eyebrows.

He got the joke. To my surprise, he actually laughed at it.

Suddenly, a sharp voice spiked shrill. All of us were on our feet, more surprise than expectation of a threat. "That's Elisif. Stay here," I declared before slipping out of the back of the tent.

There wasn't a great deal of space to run or, in fact, many places to go.

Abruptly, Elisif tore out of the tent the Imperial delegation used during the day (and which was Tullius' and Rikke's billet during the night). Within stood Tullius, looking grim, and as though he would have liked to go after Elisif, not being a man accustomed to arguments ending before he permitted, but his better sense prevailed and he simply yanked the open flap closed on him and any others occupying the space.

Elisif herself stalked over to the edge of the courtyard within which we were all billeted. A choice spot, since it regulated the number of people any one group could or would have in immediate attendance. She didn't move too close to the edge, but stood looking out over Skyrim as if it might give her answers.

I wished her luck. Gazing out over landscapes—no matter how beautiful or dramatic—has never helped me any.

After about five minutes, Falk Firebeard (also looking irritable) swept out of the Imperial delegation's tent to collect his mistress, signaling that talks had resumed.

-L-

(The narrative of Ulfric Stormcloak—the reader may decide which details are spoken aloud and which remain in his head as periphery.)

The room in which the Dragonborn chose to conduct her meeting was still the sweatbox it was earlier. The Dragonborn and her aides were exactly where we left them, as if they'd never moved. The map remained spread out before her, but she seemed done it with, preferring to watch us file back into the heat.

Warnings that the Dragonborn had no intention of negotiating anything beyond what she wanted—and what she wanted on her terms—remained at the forefront of my mind. If she wanted friction on the other side of the table, she had it. Elisif sat stiffly, giving the impression she was doing her utmost to ignore the loathsome legionnaires sitting near her.

Tullius looked sour and tired.

Once we were all seated, the Dragonborn directed herself to Tullius. "Having given the matter of Markarth's worth some thought, let me ask you this, General: what would you have asked for had you spoken first?"

The General's eyes slid to the map. "Riften," he answered promptly.

I snorted. "Now who seeks to take in talks what he can't take in battle?"

Tullius ignored this, but Rikke bristled.

I'd be more worried if Leandra didn't seem so certain there was nothing to worry about. I still entertain a few doubts and concerns… but she's good at what she does.

"Markarth for Riften, hm?" The Dragonborn studied the map a moment longer, then got to her feet, unfolding to her full height. "Let me ask you both this: why should I favor either of you in this fashion?" She looked from me to Tullius, her blue eyes narrowing, the fires behind them dampening malevolently. "Is Skyrim mine to parcel out and divide up? Is it my place to say to the people 'your city has been handed over to this-and-such an individual, I apologize for disrupting your day?'"

Her words had a curious quality, something moving, drawing, compelling.

"There is the candidate for High Queen," the Dragonborn motioned delicately to Elisif. "There is a candidate for High King," she motioned to me. "Let the voice of him or her who holds the throne throw shares of this Province back and forth like a shuttlecock. Speak up, Lady Elisif." The command had a snap to it that momentarily stuck my tongue to the roof of my mouth. "If yours was the voice of the throne, what would you say to these two fellows, these _leaders of men_?"

She knew how to make a speech, that was certain. And, doubtless, this speech would get about and spread across the Province. Gossip is a powerful carrier.

Elisif swallowed, not having expected to be called on so abruptly or so forcefully. She opened her mouth, then half closed it, giving the Dragonborn burning-eyed attention. "I would say," she declared politely but with steel under the words, "they were both fools, arguing over cities while the Province suffers. A poor attitude for any person who would rule, to ignore the suffering of his people so that it might be said of him he had no give in him when it came to a grudge."

Some of Leandra's concerns and 'internal' problems seemed to echo in what Elisif said.

"Such a man is neither fit to rule a Hold nor command a legion." This last was accompanied by two dirty looks; somewhat to my amusement, it was hard to tell which of us—Tullius or me—she objected to more at this point.

The Dragonborn tipped her chin to Balgruuf. "What of you, Jarl Balgruuf? Your Hold is caught in the middle of all these proceedings and it is through your Hold that soldiers would have to move."

Balgruuf silently assembled his answer before heaving a sigh, nostrils flaring. "I would close my borders until the dragon menace is dealt with if I thought for one moment that I was the only Hold with an interest in stopping it. Jarl Elisif says it better, but I think perhaps some of our representatives should take this out behind the barracks and then rejoin the talks."

Not a bad solution but I tried something similar in Solitude and look where it's got everyone.

The Dragonborn's smile was gracious. "Thank you, Jarl Elisif, Jarl Balgruuf."

"Then it's clear this isn't really a negotiation," Tullius sneered, crossing his arms. "You disappoint me, Dragonborn. I accepted your invitation, trusting in your good name."

Ah, so he doesn't have someone pointing things out for him. Good. I wonder what his Thalmor masters coached him on. Do _they_ think this is a negotiation?

More than that, Elisif's grimness melted into disdain as she eyed Tullius. Balgruuf, too, seemed to feel the General was out of line. The whole scene told me something Leandra hadn't actually said: ' _keep your mouth shut at this point._ '

As my mother used to say, ' _better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than to open it and remove all doubt._ '

As for the Dragonborn herself, her expression melted from patient neutrality to something disapproving, then grim, then black, as though she felt the insult to her 'good name' barely tolerable. Slowly, a rumble began to shake the air, then tremble through the room, building until dust began to drain from the ceiling. Her eyes seemed to burn more brightly than ever.

Tullius's hands tightened, fingers pressing into the table until they blanched. His gaze seemed trapped by the Dragonborn's, leaving him not quite able to look away.

"The Dragonborn is right!" Delphine's companion, Esbern I think it was, cried wheezily, jumping to his feet as he bristled. "Are you truly so blinded by your petty disagreements that you cannot see the danger? Here you sit, arguing about nothing, while the fate of the land—of this _world_ —hangs in the balance!"

The words rasped unpleasantly, telling me that at least some of them were true. "Is he with you, Delphine? I advise him to watch his tongue," I noted sourly.

The air stopped rumbling. " _I_ invited _Esbern_ ," the Dragonborn said, tone steely and blunt, "and he is the primary voice of the Blades. It seems to me that, as this is the first time he has employed his tongue, we should perhaps listen."

She tried that deadlock gaze with me, but it failed: I had the sense to look at her nose, rather than look her in the eye as Tullius had.

Is that real irritation, I wonder, or just working the crowd? She clearly knows how to do it.

Esbern swallowed hard, looking around nervously, as though not sure what to do now that he had everyone's undivided attention. "Can you truly not understand the danger?" the old man demanded. "Don't you understand what the return of the dragons means? Must it be spelled out for you time and time again?" His voice grew in strength and conviction with each question. "Alduin World-Eater has returned! Even now, he devours the souls of your fallen comrades!"

I'd… perhaps not given as much credence to _that_ part of the legend as perhaps I should. If it's true, if it's even remotely true…

"Throwing yourselves at one another serves no one but Alduin and makes the task set before the Dragonborn—last of her kind as Alduin was the first of his—all the more difficult! Knowing the use to which Alduin puts these souls—using them as sustenance as he recovers from the last blow struck against him by the Dragonborn—can you, in good conscience, continue to offer him aid and comfort? Men have been hung at the gibbet for less in time of war!"

True enough.

A ringing silence punctuated only by Esbern's wheezy panting breaths followed. It settled, pooling in the room as Esbern's words were carefully weighed.

"I don't know about the end of the world—" Tullius coughed uncomfortably.

"Believe it."

Tullius ignored my interjection. "—but the dragon situation _has_ gotten out of hand."

I turned my attention fully to the Dragonborn. She reminded me of a snake, having coiled up in the wake of Esbern's outburst, watching, biding her time.

"My men deserve better than to feed that horror." I hated admitting it, hated the idea that I couldn't hammer my way to victory more quickly. Still, their lives—or afterlives as the case may be—are my concern. Since I had to agree, I might as well be the first. "What do you want, Dragonborn?"

Her mouth thinned. "I want what I told you I wanted when I paid visits to each of you," she ended by shifting her attention to Tullius. "I want you and Tullius to enter a state of truce. Go back to your capitals. Put it amongst your men: cause no trouble."

At least she's consistent.

"Whiterun is about to become a dragon-trap—"

Excuse me?

"—and I cannot afford anyone doing anything foolish."

Dragon-trap?

"I only get one chance at this. I know there are many wounds here that run deep," the Dragonborn's tone became earnest, understanding, but propelled by necessity. "Many too deep for me to ask you to put them aside. Therefore I _do not_ ask it. I truly believe all here act as they see fit, act for the best for their soldiers and for the loved ones of those soldiers. Thus, I ask you to look past broken hearts and raw pains, to look past agendas and politics. For one moment, let Skyrim stand—if not united—then at least in neutrality so that those who have left us need not suffer a fate they have not earned."

And thank goodness she got the Thalmor out of the room. They'd never go along with this altruistic reasoning. Moreover, they'd probably see Tullius' inclination to accede to the Dragonborn's plea as a reason to consolidate power and shore up their positions. So she wants friction but only so much and only in so many places.

"That those who remain need not mourn their comrades a second time. All I ask is time in which to try," the Dragonborn concluded, seeming to reign her speech in as if it—or the emotions fueling it—threatened to overwhelm her.

Damn, what I wouldn't give for even an _inclination_ for her to support the Stormcloaks. She could talk Clavicus Vile into a fair bargain.

"You have Solitude's support, my lady," Elisif almost spat the words in her haste to be the first to back the Dragonborn up. "If the _General_ doesn't like the stance of neutrality, he may remove himself to Markarth or wherever suits him."

I had to grin as Tullius' face went blotchy red with surprise and indignation. Leandra said she hadn't spoken with Elisif on the terrace, but clearly the Dragonborn had plans for the woman.

"Elisif—"

" _Jarl_ Elisif," she snapped drawing herself up, first to perfect posture, then to her feet. "Solitude is _my_ city." She glared around the room, but mostly at Tullius. "It came to me when my Torygg was killed and the responsibility to do right by it rests with me, not with you."

For once, there was no nasty look in my direction, just an iron certainty that reminded me of Torygg. He had to work himself up a bit when putting himself out on a limb. It was easier for him with Elisif watching; who wants to look weak in front of a woman like her?

"I lost my Torygg to that murderer over there."

Ah, I spoke too soon. Oddly enough, it was amusing this time. Or maybe it was simple indulgence to watch her beat her wings against her handler. The Dragonborn certainly looked well-pleased.

"I will not lose his soul to some jumped up lizard with delusions of godhood—and if it befalls that he… that he…" Color, this time not of anger, indignation or enthusiasm, flooded her face. Her voice caught, and she continued in a lower tone. "Then I say let the Dragonborn make this dragon wish he'd stayed gone. As for you, General: stay or go, it's your choice. But Solitude stands with the Dragonborn."

I honestly didn't know Elisif could be so eloquent, even when she put her mind to it. It's a day for ladies making fine speeches.

"As does Whiterun," Balgruuf put in, indicating with a finger.

Well, if she wants to use his Hold to trap a dragon, I suppose he has to be. I don't envy him.

"Thank you both," the Dragonborn answered graciously, bowing her head in gratitude.

Leandra's right: be careful how we treat Balgruuf. I don't want the Dragonborn rolling over my Hold on a vendetta. War is war, but I don't think she'll choose to look at it that way. 'Whiterun was neutral—why didn't you just get on with fighting the Empire?' and never mind the logistics.

Finally, Tullius nodded. The Dragonborn seemed to accept it as agreement to her terms. "I thank all of you, particularly you, my lady, my lord," she declared to Elisif and Balgruuf. "I pray that you will all wait with patience, considering the nature of my task before anyone decides whether I have failed. Time moves differently in Death. Perhaps faster, perhaps slower, than it does in the world of the living. Wait for Alduin or me to reemerge. And if anyone feels especially generous, a few prayers to the gods to aid my cause cannot possibly go amiss."

-L-

"Clever woman. If she can stall long enough, she gets everyone's war machine caught in the onset of winter. I don't think anyone will wait that long, but it wasn't a bad thing to angle for, where she's concerned," I noted, opening my eyes as Ulfric finished his recital. He wasn't exaggerating when he said he had a good memory.

"We'll have to be careful of Balgruuf," Ulfric said, apropos of nothing, but I knew what he meant. My plans for Whiterun had better work.

They will. I'll be there in person to ensure it… not that I've shared that part just yet.

"And Elisif. The Dragonborn has made good picks of whom to balance against you and Tullius."

"What do you know about this dragon-trap?" Galmar asked.

I shrugged. "Just what I've heard from the Whiterun servants up here during the day: the Dragonborn needs to find some aerie of Alduin's. She need a dragon to tell her how to get there—or take her there."

Ulfric shook his head. "Thoughts?"

"I think we should visit Jarl Laila in Riften on the way back." For the express purpose of shoring up relations, proving I am who I say I am, and negotiating with her for a place to store siege equipment so as to move it more quickly into Whiterun when the truce breaks. Not that I can say any of this. "I can send ahead with a message hawk asking if it would be agreeable to her."

Ulfric chewed on this. "Very well. If she's amenable."

"Riften is quite lovely this time of year," I observed inanely. It also means I can stop in, shore up contact with the Thieves' Guild. Absently, my hand crept up to the necklace I wore, glittering black jet and a fiery black opal. Who knows? Maybe I'll find other things to do.

"I take it you've a faster way to get word of the truce out than I would have at this moment?" Ulfric asked, calling me out of my thoughts.

"I did bring several birds and know to whom I should send them to facilitate that, if such is your wish. It requires only a message in your hand and under your seal. I'll take them down to Ivarstead and hopefully be back tonight." It only made sense, after all. "And perhaps a copy to be presented to the Dragonborn to show you've already fulfilled your promise?"


	35. Chapter 35

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for looking over this chapter!

EDIT 10/16/18: Special thanks to InditheWanderer for catching a _horrific_ confusion of characters on my part. I had Angrenor Once-Honored somehow confused with Brunwulf Free-Winter. I'll be making sure all the instances of this error are corrected, and apologize to all my readers for this horrible oversight on my part

~Raven.

-L-

Naturally, Laila was delighted with the idea of a 'diplomatic visit' from her fellow Jarl. With the war on, this sort of event had dropped almost to a trickle. I won't say Holds waste a lot of time and expense on lavish parties in the best of times but the Jarls of Holds close together or with whom they had close ties did used to visit one another once or twice a year.

Correspondences are well and good, but how else does one keep up with one's allies if one never visits?

Besides, Laila likes to have a good dinner gathering; she loves the swirl of special company, and she almost tripped over the courier I sent trying to get a 'yes, please come!' message back out on the same day. The courier told me as much.

I hasten to add that part of Laila's excitement was the sure knowledge of an invitation to visit Windhelm in future. It's all about appearances and _that_ is a large portion of diplomacy right there. Appearances.

It also gets Ulfric out of Windhelm for a while, give him some outside perspectives. I had the distinct impression he was the way he was towards Windhelm because he was so accustomed to it and this accustomedness left him unappreciative of what was going on. It's a common failing among those who don't get out much, and whatever being Jarl entailed, it kept Ulfric busy. I might often find him at his strategy table, but that was hardly the only thing he concerned himself with.

On my part, it was concrete proof to Madame—who had been very quiet—that I was exactly what I portrayed myself as: part of Ulfric's staff. I'll admit, her silence wasn't unexpected but it was mildly… disquieting. So a little face-to-face time would be of benefit because if Laila threw a fete or even had a formal meal, Madame would certainly be there.

Meanwhile, the weather was good and, when one is making a state visit, one never rushes to get to the end of the journey. The hosting party has to have time to get things ready, and it was absolutely essential for Jorleif to get things in Windhelm pulled together and shipped to Riften so they arrived before we did.

There was a great deal of walking, which meant a great deal of idle chat.

I found Galmar less… well, less _Galmar_ out on the open road. He wasn't much friendlier—then again, neither was I—but it was easier to get him to talk. It beat silence, and insight into someone is insight into someone. Ulfric, too, proved more communicative than usual—probably because one doesn't discuss my kind of business in public, but also because any well brought up girl knows how to play hostess and that means keeping conversation going.

Here's the thing about old soldiers: there are a great many things, for good reason, they prefer not to discuss. However, there are also a great many stories—usually the lighter ones, or the ones suffused with irony—that old companions will occasionally trot out, especially if there's a new audience. So it wasn't difficult to prod conversation that way.

Truth be told, it was less enlightening and more entertaining. I take that back, it was enlightening in that it gave me perspective on Ulfric. I don't think I've ever seen him quite so casual or in such good humor. As with most people—Galmar inclusive—he looked better when he laughed, something he's rarely done (having rarely had cause to do) in my presence.

Eventually it was my turn. I didn't have war stories, but the mercantile trade can often be just as dangerous… as I'd learned. So I kept the stories light and inconsequential, or treated the subject matters as humorous. Since we were in the Rift, I centered my stories around the locale.

The time I nearly fell into the canals. The time someone's exotic rat-thing-pet got loose in the Bee and Barb. The Spring Festival where I'd ended up wearing a honey masque… but not as part of a planned beauty treatment. A couple of times where my sharp tongue could have cost me, but ended up benefitting me (once or twice to my own bewilderment).

I haven't always been a coordinated or socially adroit person. What's the saying? Comedy equals tragedy plus time?

-L-

While many Jarls would have accepted the invitation to stay at the Jarl's home, Ulfric remained with his entourage in a camp outside the city. The blue tents dotted the area charmingly. I might as well say that the little add-on in which I'd been lodged at High Hrothgar had been replaced by a proper tent, although it was kept near the one Ulfric and Galmar (as Ulfric's housecarl) shared.

Svana had come with the party from Windhelm, carrying my correspondences in a locked case in the trunk of belongings I'd asked for.

She wasn't delighted to be back in Riften, but she didn't complain. I doubt she would, even if we were to spend all day in the city; she's not _staying_ here, after all.

The only complaint I had about the whole trip was that Ralof was present, but for varying reasons was compelled to remain with the troop managing security. It was weird, contemplating the enforced distance. Still, he managed to get close enough to exchange a few words—or offer one of those smiles that twist my heart so painfully—several times a day.

It was only once we were in sight of Riften's outer walls that I remembered the Amulet of Mara, which now reposed in my hip satchel.

' _It's nothing. Until it is._ '

The thought made my guts tighten, until it seemed almost perverse that one of the first things I did was pay reverence at the Benevolence of Mara before the more usual paying of respects in the Halls of the Dead. I frowned at the effigy of Mara, then slowly fished the amulet out, turning it over in my hands.

My eyes stung.

Mother Mara… what do I do? Is this a punishment?

-L-

"Now I remember why I hate doing this," Ulfric grumped at me our third evening in Riften.

"It is onerous," I agreed, "but necessary." My work depended entirely on checking up on a number of matters. The one I didn't have to worry about was Marcurio making a name for himself. He wasn't thane, or Court Wizard or anything like that, but he was invited to each of the dinners and amusements Laila could come up with. It's something.

Questions asked of the apothecary about someone looking to purchase jarrin root were mixed: someone _had_ come, but the proprietor was uncertain what that person had looked like. Not a blonde woman, though. Nor did the man know anything about the properties of jarrin root, only that his… eh, disciple… a Black-Briar with an unpleasant demeanor, wanted to get some but found she couldn't.

Naturally, a Black-Briar wouldn't be above peddling poison.

A few more benign questions—none of which were particularly interesting, all of which allowed Ulfric to complain and get his grievances off his chest—and he dismissed me for the evening.

I knew, when I stepped out of Ulfric's tent and more or less into Ralof that Mara was laughing. Whether it was a wicked cackle over tormenting an already tormented soul or a 'you silly girl!' sort of laugh, I wasn't sure.

"I'm off this evening," Ralof noted. "Care for a walk?"

"Certainly." So we walked up and down the shores of Lake Honrich. I needed the silence, and Ralof isn't a chatterbox. In fact, after two laps up and back, I found myself feeling soothed enough to reach out and catch his hand with mine.

The sense of being soothed by quiet company vanished, like the bottom dropping out of my world as his fingers closed eagerly around my hand, warm and snug. I should have kept my hands to myself, however pleased Ralof seemed at the light contact. It brought up a mix of sickening certainty I'm not good for him—or maybe that I'm not good _enough_ for him—and the unpleasant ache of separation.

It was a nasty taste of my likely future: we see one another every day, we're polite and courteous… but that's just during the day. At night… there's nothing. He sleeps with the troops, and I've got my tent near Ulfric's and Galmar's.

It's not just getting hot and sweaty that I miss—though I do miss that, more once I thought about it. More than that, I miss having him close, or being able to snuggle up or curl around his warm bulk and just… be.

I don't know. Such a simple thing, but there's something sustaining, fortifying about it. I always feel more up to facing a day if he's been there through the night. It'll be hard to send him back into the field, but I accepted that my men would be on a rotating schedule in and out, and his turn's come back around to head out.

I reached into my hip bag and pulled out the Amulet of Mara. "I've been thinking about this," I announced, holding up the amulet for him to see.

The hand around mine tightened fractionally.

It was hard to get my breath, but I'd thought things over and come to the necessary conclusions—not just about my concerns, but about what he seemed to want. "...if you still want me when the war is over… then yes." Saying it twisted my stomach almost painfully. Nevertheless, I forced myself to look up into his honest, smiling face. He wouldn't take this well if I gave the impression of being compelled to the block. "I mean it."

Because it's likely he'll see—or find out about, or guess about—how unpleasant my work can get. If he can't handle it…

…well. What good man _would_ handle that well? And I'll have nothing to do with a scoundrel.

He looked like I'd just promised him half the world and everything in it, so much so that I found myself chuckling ruefully. "Is it safe to kiss you?" he asked impishly. "You never know who's watching, right?"

Even phrased playfully, it sounded like he really was trying to understand how a 'we' could be fit into a life if my business compromised half of that life.

For a moment… I actually hoped, _believed_ that maybe, just maybe this wouldn't end badly.

"Probably not," I answered as seriously as I could while still smirking. "So do it anyway."

-L-

The East Empire Company's office told just how hard times were. It employed one, count them _one_ , clerk.

One clerk. That was it. No one else. Now, the office in Solitude is bustling and hustling, clerks going over manifests, planning manifests, planning ship/cargo combinations, logging destinations and origins, a noisy hub of activity that tells you why it's called the East _Empire_ Company. You can stand there for ten minutes (assuming you don't look important) and no one will notice you unless they trip over you.

This lowly office had clearly seen better days.

"Oh! Hello there!" From the next room bustled an Imperial who looked both surprised and embarrassed, his eyes flicking about the rather bare room in which we stood. "Uh, excuse the… well. Things have been difficult, lately." His rueful smile did not hide his embarrassment.

"I'm here to look into it," I answered with as much sprightliness as I could manage.

"Oh? The Company finally sent someone?" The man looked torn between being ready to pass out with worry or jump for joy.

"Not the Company. The Jarl. The drop in revenues generated by the Company was brought to his attention and he was concerned. It's highly deviant from the norm," I answered, casting about for a chair, which I found, then settled on it. "So here I am. Why don't you explain things to me?"

The Imperial sighed heavily, pulling up another chair. Rather than sit on it, he leaned heavily on the back. "It's raiders, you see. Pirates are an occupational hazard: they were hitting the Company all the way from Hammerfell to Vvardenfell. Now, though… well. They're simply hitting us hardest. Anything coming in or going out of Windhelm."

Because Solitude won't put up with such nonsense. And, having the Legion in residence, it's not hard for Tullius to order up a strong maritime response.

Ulfric needs a navy, even if it's just a small one. It's surprising he doesn't have one… or maybe it shouldn't be.

"Excuse my ignorance, but raiders are common to shipping, are they not?"

"Not as common as some would have you believe," the Imperial growled. "Don't think I haven't noticed that the Shatter-Shields' business is still booming," he continued morosely. "Can't be just gouging their workers like they do. Don't remember the last time I heard someone from their company lamenting lost cargo."

"You keep a log of what's shipped and what's lost, do you not?"

He nodded, then anticipated my request to see it. "There's a desk in the other room. It's by the fire and a bit warmer than it is out here."

"Thank you. You're reasonably certain the Shatter-Shields haven't been having the same problems?"

The Imperial snorted. "Look around you, Madame. Then go over there and have a look. How could they be?"

I settled down at the offered desk with the ledger. I should note it's highly irregular to let even a Jarl's fixer just look at one's business records with only 'I'm here to help' as an excuse. It showed just how bad things had gotten, and why the Company hasn't sent investigators yet I really can't tell. The shabbiness of the office suggested months with shipping under siege. Maybe they're blaming it on the war.

Maybe they decided to choose a side. I doubt it, though. The Company's too opportunistic to do something as stupid as taking a side when everyone benefits from trade—and they do so doubly by trading with the ones the other side won't. It's a very mercenary kind of business.

Maybe the Company's fixers were waylaid and never got here. Suspicious circumstances, these. And in Windhelm, the Shatter-Shields are a big name, an honored clan. Also Nords. Their woes would be noticed first in a situation like this. Noticed and remedied.

As I read and weighed what I read, the Imperial muttering to himself to break the silence, rubbing his troubles together.

The only thing I gained from the ledger was a headache from reading small, cramped handwriting all day in the flickering light of the fire. There was only one thing to do, as I saw it: I needed a look at the Shatter-Shields' ledgers, see what kinds of losses they're suffering.

Or aren't, as the case may be.

-L-

I did feel bad about messing with Suvaris' business; or, rather, the business she's associated with. I'd never want to endanger her or her job. However, I did have to have the ledger. The reasonable thing to do, of course, was get the East Empire Company and the Shatter-Shields snarling at one another about corporate warfare tactics. As it turned out, Orthus—the Imperial at the Company's office—was vocal in his complaints about the Shatter-Shields' supposed involvement with the pirates.

Now, this did not make a whole lot of sense to me. Competition is the lifeblood of economics. However, a deeper consideration told me human nature doesn't think that broadly in a partisan city. To hold the docks, to maintain exclusivity over shipping in and out of Windhelm… that would be quite lucrative for the business who could manage such a monopoly.

And, Windhelm's social (pro-Nord, anti-everyone else) and political (Stormcloak, whereas the Company is neutral) climates being what they are… well. It's no surprise that the authorities haven't given proper to thought to this, however in their best interests it is: tariffs are tariffs, and that's money in the Hold coffers. One doesn't win a war without money. Ideals don't feed and arm one's troops.

Ulfric personally isn't as narrow-minded as his Hold and his armies have become. If he hears 'decreased profits during time of war' he won't go off the deep end, but he'll come down like a hammer on the party cutting into his purse, no matter how their ears point (so to speak).

I wasn't prepared to just take Orthus' word for it, so the matter required careful investigation before I said a single word about anything involving the docks.

It was a bit clichéd, I'll admit it. I waited until Ralof and the rest of my household were asleep. I got up, dressed, put on my amulet of identity-blurring, and headed down to the docks. Careful stepping and a little luck left me in the Shatter-Shields' shipping office unnoticed. It wasn't hard to find the ledger—or, rather, the journal/ledger most officials keep. Anyone in business knows to keep two ledgers. In an honest company, the numbers all match. Otherwise… there's a book for the bosses and a book of reality.

Poor Nenya knows all about this.

The one I wanted was the one Suvaris kept for herself. I didn't like to think of her involved in anything unpleasant, but given my own lot in life… who was I to say a judgmental word?

It only took a few minutes of reading to find the relevant passages… and a few that were simply of interest, enough to get the wheels in my head turning.

' _Reports that our pirate friends are offering to let the Company ships through in exchange for gold. Will need to look into this._ '

' _Explained situation to Master Torbjorn. As usual he did not wish to know details, only how much money I needed to ensure smooth operations. I depart tomorrow for Dawnstar, hoping to catch the captain at the Windpeak for his crew's regular 'festivities.'_ '

' _Stig Salt-Plank proved to be more uncooperative than I had hoped._ '

' _Hoping word gets back to Stig's betters of our new arrangements before more Company ships can make it through._ '

Interestingly, but not related to this matter, were a few other passages.

' _Punished one of the dockworkers for laziness. Two days rations—empty stomach means less good work for a few days, but he'll work hard from here on out._ '

' _Found the Argonians had completely fouled up the operations in my absence. No surprise, there. Need to see to the old one's skooma supply, that should keep them motivated._ '

I took the ledger with me, promising to return it eventually. Suvaris would get in trouble if anyone discovered it was gone. But, as I said, two ledgers. She can manage without her personal inclusions for a while.

It was, perhaps, the first good taste I had of involving someone I knew, someone I even liked, in a business that didn't concern them but which would certainly have repercussions. I didn't like it, but that didn't stop the necessity.

-L-

By the next morning I had two nebulous plans. One of which was to fix this shipping problem—and do so with Ulfric's full backing. The other was to leverage change on behalf of the Jarl, which meant that the Shatter-Shields might find themselves pulled up on the carpet to explain themselves and their conduct. I felt confident that Ulfric would accept my assessments and suggestions, if only because I know more about the mercantile world than he does.

He's a lot of things, and smart about listening to what people who _know_ say is one of them. Besides, I had a way of hedging it just so that even Galmar would back me up without thinking as much as he usually does. The Shatter-Shields' narrow view in time of war is inexcusable, and I can sell that viewpoint to two old soldiers.

Now, while pulling them up on the carpet is useful, so are better conditions for the Argonians—and that is the other plan, change by degrees, without the Jarl looking as if he's suddenly pandering once it's unmistakably in his interests to do so. I can sell that in terms of 'if you want the Jarl to _really_ come down on you.'

I don't know if Suvaris was justified in certain conducts towards the Argonians—we definitely have to find this skooma peddler and put him or her permanently out of business—and it's not my place to judge. The fact remains that between the ban from entering the city and the pittance paid by the Shatter-Shields—a pittance East Empire can't match now, and thereby steal away the Shatter-Shields' workers—I can see why ill-feeling and resentment might seethe.

I don't know that I can get the ban lifted just yet, but I feel sure I can leverage better pay and conditions. This meant involving an old war hero, somewhat past his glory, by name of Brunwulf Free-Winter… and Suvaris as a mechanism to get things moving in just the right direction.

Her motivation is 'anything to better her people's lot.' Well, within reason… and I'll be the first to admit that 'within reason' runs an entire gamut of possibilities based on pressures exerted on the one defining 'within reason.'

Therefore, I took it upon myself to spend the day writing down these plans, tweaking and rearranging until I felt comfortable with the looks of things and the wiggle room allowed.

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk)

18 Second Seed

To my dear Mme. Ashlynn,

I'm considering investing in a maritime venture, but Whiterun being landlocked, I wanted to get your opinions. One hears the most horrible stories about pirates on the Sea of Ghosts and I wondered if they were at all accurate. The East Empire Company is rumored to be suffering an unusually high amount of predation.

I wonder if there are any cabals worth being named and known.

Regardless, it's a blessing from the Eight that Windhelm hasn't got any kind of naval force. Can you imagine if they did? It wouldn't be good for anyone.

I really shouldn't burden you with such worries, but you're such a clever woman.

You might as well know I've had a marriage proposal. If he and I both survive the war—and if he's still interested at that time—I intend to accept. I imagine I can coax you down to Whiterun (assuming that wretched Ulfric doesn't burn it to the ground) for the ceremony. I refuse to be married in Riften, no matter how traditional it is. There are simply too many people to whom I object. You're the first person I've told about this and the only one I plan to at this point.

All my love,

Lady Grey

-L-

I did rather like Ulfric's study. It was warm, almost too warm, and brightly lit by the fire in the fireplace and candles here and there. It also said 'moderately wealthy Jarl in residence.' The chairs were comfortable too, and there was never any shortage of something to sip during a meeting.

"You want to _what_?" Ulfric looked caught between amusement and disgust, the whole being seasoned with perplexity.

Galmar simply snorted. Such a charmer.

"I want to plaster the walls of your great hall and then have them painted," I repeated. The banners had been ordered and arrived so quickly I could only imagine Jorleif had been on the same page as me about them. Before the end of the day on which we discussed redoing the main hall, he'd sent me a list of what could immediately be obtained, and an itemized list prioritizing the rest of my suggestions.

It was a little surprising to find such enthusiastic backing. Maybe it just took two voices shouting the same thing to get past Ulfric's… utilitarian disposition.

"Why?"

I didn't sigh, but I wanted to. I was at risk of sounding like one of _those_ women. "Your main hall should make a statement and that statement should not be 'I can't afford to keep this room presentable.' This is the Palace of the Kings. It has history. It's symbolic." Like that stupid crown Galmar is so in love with. "Do you really think I'd put grapes and garden scenes on the walls? Half-naked nymphs?"

Ulfric cracked a wry grin. "No." Whether the 'no' was to the nymphs or to all those 'do you think' suggestions was up to interpretation.

"Frippery art has no place here. The walls are to remind anyone who walks in the kind of figures who lived here in ages past. And I don't suppose a depiction of the Jagged Crown near the throne would go amiss." I aimed this at Galmar. "Besides, it'll cut down on the drafts behind your throne."

Ulfric sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'll think about it. We are in the middle of a war, you know."

"This issue rather predates the war, but I take your point."

"I can't believe you're wasting time with this," Galmar grunted. To his credit, he really did look disappointed by this flare of domestic interest.

"I've already given his lordship the plans for Whiterun and I'm halfway to Falkreath. I was asked not to be so precipitous, so I thought adjusting a bachelors' hall to something diplomatic might be a good way to do that. Also, my lord, I should like to speak privately with you about an internal matter at your convenience."

The look on Galmar's face left me feeling warm and almost affable. When he looked to Ulfric, to see if he ought to leave for this meeting, Ulfric simply shook his head.

Ulfric studied me thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Directly after dinner."

I inclined my head politely. It means he'll think about letting me plaster the walls.

-L-

I poured myself a partial mug of mead from the container on the sideboard. "I have a favor to ask of you, my lord," I announced without preamble. I didn't really need it, but I wanted something to do with my hands to keep from fidgeting. "Two, actually, both in the name of domestic diplomacy."

Ulfric looked up from the book he was reading—it looked like reading for amusement rather than for information. "Oh?"

Galmar was out—visiting Rolff at home, no doubt.

The latter had been pleasantly quiet since his altercation with Mjoll. I could only assume Galmar put the fear of Talos (both of them being devotees) into him about minding his manners. The rumors from the street were that Elda Early-Dawn had put him on a three-drink limit. Ostensibly this was because he ran his tab up too high before it was finally paid.

I can fault Galmar for a great many things, but he'd taken this matter seriously, it seemed. Or maybe seeing Rolff pulled up short by the leadership inspired others to take a more reasonable, less indulgent, line with him. I'll chalk it up to Galmar's brotherly interference.

"Yes. I want you to take a tour of Windhelm, beginning on the docks and working your way through the Snow Quarter. Go on foot and don't take Galmar with you. Don't worry, I've taken care for your safety." The last remark was met by a glare which suggested Ulfric wasn't concerned about it since he could handle himself.

I answered with a smug smile. That's true enough on a conventional battlefield. Things aren't bad enough here that he's got to fear assassination or anything worse than a rotten tomato or reeking egg.

So far.

And I spoke to Suvaris, with whom I've maintained a cordial friendship, about doing what she can to keep that from happening.

"And when should I do this?" Ulfric asked, frowning.

"Tomorrow. While you're taking this tour, you'll meet a man named Brunwulf Free-Winter." The best way to implement my plan about adjusting the view of non-Nords in this city was to have changes come from Brunwulf, this 'voice for the voiceless' (that is to say, for the second-class citizenry in Windhelm) to Ulfric. "All you have to do is strike up a chat with him and be seen as well-disposed towards him."

Ulfric put his book down on his lap, leaning on one arm of his chair. "And?"

I shook my head. "And nothing. If you enjoy his conversation, feel free to strike up a relationship. It's best if you do, but I'm not one to organize your personal life."

"Just the main hall," Ulfric noted sardonically.

Ah, so Jorleif told him about the list of furnishings I'd requisitioned. "My lord objects?"

He snorted, then waved the topic away. "Why is it best?"

"Because I'm going to recommend him to you later. Don't ask just yet. Things are still… fluid. Simply take the walk, look around, have the chat, and come back home. That's it."

"And what does this achieve?"

I considered, choosing my words carefully. "When was the last time you were in the Snow Quarter?"

"…"

That long? "Brunwulf is… known to be sympathetic to the situation non-Nords find themselves in. Particularly the Dunmer but also the Argonians. The idea is to allow him access to you, to give the impression that he is able to present matters to your attention."

"Thaneship."

"Is he not deserving based on his own merits? I was under the impression that he was."

"Continue."

"I know you can't simply reverse policy, but with this particular voice in your ear—and my own suggestions—changes can be made. They will be slow, subtle, no sign of pandering to the masses. Because, of course, it's their work that allows the 'True Nords' to do all this fighting. Windhelm would grind to a halt if her second-class of citizen were to decide to go elsewhere. Or," I added delicately, "decide that the Empire would be better suited to managing Windhelm."

Ulfric straightened, his expression going stony. "Who?"

"There are sympathizers for the opposite faction in every city, as you well know. I'm simply saying that as the war reignites agitators may surface. We need to cut them off at the knees and this is the best way I've found barring witch hunts and mass executions. And those never end as well as they go."

Ulfric was silent for a long time.

He'll do it.

"Let's talk about your plans for the great hall," came the grudging response.

"It will be the Blue Palace of the eastern half of the Province. Elegant without being ostentatious," I promised.

-L-

(Letter, sent by message hawk, to be routed by courier upon arrival in High Rock)

19 Second Seed

Hjerim, Windhelm

Eastmarch Hold, Skyrim Province

To M. Roche-Guyon of High Rock, who breathes life into paint and plaster:

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Eastmarch Hold, Skyrim sends his greetings and regards.

Being an admirer of your work, it is my hope to ascertain whether you would be willing to entertain the idea of coming to our Province and applying your genius to the audience chamber of the Palace of the Kings. The large space requires desperate attention and, having observed your work at the Temple of the One and the Temple of Dibella both in Cyrodiil, I entreat you no behalf of my Jarl not to refuse consideration of this request. It is my hope that you will be willing to enter talks about this matter as soon as may be. Please answer by message hawk, care of Thane Leandra Grey:

Hjerim, Windhelm,

Eastmarch Hold, Province of Skyrim.

Yours sincerely,

Thane Leandra Grey of Windhelm, on behalf of Jarl Ulfric of Eastmarch Hold

[Eastmarch signet ring's imprint in wax applied beside Jarl Ulfric's authenticating signature.]


	36. Chapter 36

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this chapter! Special thanks as well to anyone else sticking with this slow-to-update story! Your support is so very much appreciated!

-L-

(Forwarded from Whiterun)

Proudspire Manor, Solitude

Second Seed 21

From the desk of Mme. Ashlynn

To my dear Lady Grey,

I chatted with a friend who works in the East Empire Company's office yesterday and this isn't a time to invest in maritime ventures. Apparently the Blood Horkers —what name!—have been harassing shipping on the eastern Sea of Ghosts, slowly strangling trade to Morrowind and Solstheim. Although she assures me the Company is looking into it, it sounds like one of those situations where 'one more thing' keeps coming up.

I can't say whether I approve; the Company has a long reach, but these Blood Horkers ( _such_ a name, I can't get over the ridiculousness of it!) are also strangling all but a lifeline of trade out of Windhelm. Apparently, this 'Shatter-Shield Shipping' has ships and sailors made of stern stuff. Either their cargos aren't as rich, or they're so tough the Blood Horkers (Seriously? Blood Horkers? How can they expect anyone to take them seriously?) won't interfere with them.

You can imagine how upsetting this is to my friend. Not as upsetting as the idea of a naval force out of Windhelm, though. The Emperoris still in Solitude, you know, living out of the _Katariah_ in the harbor. The idea of that wretched Ulfric being able to menace our city or our Emperor… it's not a comforting thought. I do wonder why the Emperor hasn't gone back to Cyrodiil yet. There's even a rumor beginning to circulate that he's not actually here. Old men in sumptuous robes look alike at a distance.

Still, it doesn't make sense as rumors go. Why fake his presence here?

I don't know if you heard, or if I told you, but Commander Cassius Maro's son was killed last week—you know, the officer leading the Penitus Oculatus. 'Killed.' I should say 'murdered.' Apparently, it happened in Riften. The rumor is that he was in bed with the Stormcloaks, hence why he was in the eastern half of the Province at all. No one seems to know why he would be there, and it's the only logical supposition anyone I know has come up with.

The poor Commander has been beside himself; I begin to worry he's not going to remain competent to hold his post for much longer. Supposedly, he had quite the row with Legate Rikke and again with General Tullius. He seems to think his son was innocent—of course he would—and that this whole thing is a frame-up.

There's even been a whisper that the Dark Brotherhood is behind all this, that Gaius is just a casualty in some war they're waging. I'm not sure where the rumor started, but it's started. I'm sure this is just wild speculation. The Dark Brotherhood? A tale told to frighten children indoors at night, these days.

Anyway, it seems like a dreary summer if things go the way they have been.

You're engaged? You'll have to tell me all about this young man, who his people are, all of it. I don't mistrust your judgment or taste, but I'm a true busybody about my friends' romances as you very well know. I'm sure I have no idea why you're waiting so long, but doubtless you understand the situation better than I do.

I know I had something else I wanted to say, but I can't for the life of me remember. Ah, well. If it was important I'll send you another note.

Yours,

Mme. Ashlynn

P.S: Wherever did you meet this young man? I would have thought work would take up too much of your attention to allow you to look for something like that.

-L-

"Blood Horkers?" I asked, wrinkling my nose in distaste. I was with Mother: what in the world possessed them to name themselves something so ridiculous? Horkers are fat, slow, ponderous creatures, only aggressive if provoked and fairly delicious as a foodstuff.

Well, no one ever said pirates are smart.

I tapped Mother's letter with my fingers, ignoring her questions about Ralof. I knew she'd ask. I also know she'll approve of him.

Gaius Maro is the head of the Penitus Oculatus—the Emperor's personal guard. He was in Skyrim months before the Emperor was supposed to arrive to ensure everything was safe. What surprises me is why his son was wandering around the eastern half of the Empire—Stormcloak territory. _I_ certainly never heard any little birds twittering (or big lads bellowing) about the lad joining 'the Cause.'

I opened my armoire and dug out the locked case marked 'Riften,' flipping through to the papers from Second Seed. My own list of cumulative deaths was at the back of the file. Gaius wasn't mentioned by name, just that a non-resident had been murdered walking between the Benevolence of Mara and the Bee and Barb. The killer was never found, just gone like smoke. Weapon of choice: an arrow through the eye, the shot exceptionally precise.

I frowned at Mother's hints that the Emperor wasn't actually in Skyrim. Now, if the son of the Penitus Oculatus' commanding officer is poking around the Eastern half of the Province—and assuming he's not really in bed with the Stormcloaks, because I think I'd know somehow or other if he was—he'd need a reason. He was doing it undercover, because a Legionnaire or a member of the Penitus Oculatus can't just wander around without drawing attention.

What were you looking for, young man? And was that why you were killed? Or was it something else?

This wasn't someone getting stabbed in some back alley for the purse he carried. It looks, on the surface, like a private act of vengeance, but with a name like Maro attached to it… I begin to wonder if maybe Commander Maro might have the right idea. And if I was him, I would have the Emperor or his decoy out of Skyrim _tonight_.

My stomach quivered uncomfortably. Why would someone kill Gaius in such a blatant fashion? And rumors of someone trying to acquire jarrin root.

The stories are that the Dark Brotherhood is as on the decline as the Thieves' Guild. But if I asked myself 'who would want to kill Titus Mede III _and_ likely succeed if they tried?' the list is very short and, in decline or not, the Dark Brotherhood ranks second, right behind the Thalmor. Wouldn't assassinating an Emperor be a wonderful way to say, 'We're back! Business is open!'

I don't want that. I really, _really_ don't want that. If the Thalmor want to stomp out a religion, maybe they should start with that cult.

I looked at the stack of paper on my desk, then sat down, inking my stylus.

-L-

Second Seed 22

Palace of the Kings, Windhelm

To Commander Cassius Maro, Penitus Oculatus:

Having received word of your son's death in the Rift, I feel it my obligation to deny the involvement of myself or anyone under my banner. However determined we are to drive the Empire and its legions from our home, we have no intention of offering violence to the Emperor. Believe this or not as you like, but on my father's head I swear that my movement had nothing to do with this unfortunate event.

As a sign of goodwill in this matter, permit me to share a report I was given with you and your Penitus Oculatus: it was brought to my attention that unknown parties were seeking in my Province for a reagent called jarrin root. I am assured this is a plant native to Morrowind, and quite lethal in both its refined and unrefined forms. While none of the alchemists interviewed about this substance report selling any—not having it to hand, although Riften is certainly home to a specialist in poisonous reagents—it is possible an assassin might go straight to the source and obtain it directly from Morrowind.

A person currently wanted in connection with a murder in Windhelm certainly sought passage to Morrowind: a Dunmer woman with short black hair, with the accent of a Morrowind native, who speaks but softly. At the time, she was accompanied by a red-haired male, Imperial by his looks. They were seen leaving Windhelm by privately contracted transport during First Seed. If she passed through Windhelm on her return, it went unremarked.

While I cannot support the Emperor's policies, I have no desire for the civil unrest that would follow in the wake of his assassination. As the most high-profile target in Skyrim just now, I entreat you to remove him from my Province and return him to his capital at risk of the unspeakable happening.

Yours,

-L-

I looked over the letter. Ulfric can rewrite it as he likes, then sign and seal it. I doubt it will mean anything in the grand scheme of things, but the simple fact that he's aware that the Penitus Oculatus had an agent running around—and no reason to think Gaius stopped or was planning stop in Windhelm—but isn't going off the deep end about it might give Maro pause.

And if we can't lay hands on this questionable Dunmer, perhaps the Penitus Oculatus or the Legion can. I would feel better knowing she was safely in custody with someone.

It would have been better to send this letter sooner, but one must do the best she can.

I'll just ask that, if Cassius writes back, that Ulfric sends me a copy of the correspondence. Meanwhile, I have pirate problems.

Did the Shatter-Shields—assuming they really are in bed with these ridiculous pirates—really think no one would notice that their ships alone were safe? …although, I must say, that does seem to be the case.

I took a deep breath, pushing back the thought. Assumptions are dangerous. It's possible everything is alright and there's no wrongdoing.

But if there is, I'll have them. And I know _exactly_ what I'll do with them. Scandals are ugly. This one cuts into the Jarl's treasury. They'll go a long way to ensure he doesn't find out. I'll tell him, of course, but only after ensuring he doesn't try taking matters into his own hands. Let him play ignorant; it will be far better.

Please, Zenithar, let there be wrongdoing here.

"Svana?" I called, leaving my chamber once I'd put everything away, shredding the letter of complaint from the Captain of the Watch about Mjoll's disposition to causing civic unrest. I get a letter from him every few days letting me know whether Mjoll is making waves or not. She hasn't been arrested, so clearly she hasn't crossed any lines. I need to get her and Brunwulf together. He's got the local knowledge and she knows how to wage a crusade.

"My lady?" Svana called. She appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her head done up in a kerchief, clearly in the process of cleaning.

"I'll be dining at the Palace tonight."

"You might take your parasol," Svana advised. "It looks like rain."

I trusted her judgment about the weather. She's got an uncanny nose for when moisture refuses to simply be something that hangs in the air.

-L-

"You think someone's really going to try assassinating the Emperor?" Galmar asked blankly. "Who? Why?"

"If they were going to assassinate Ulfric, they'd have at least tried by now," I answered, as Ulfric re-read the letter I'd submitted to him. For a man in his position, it isn't uncommon for someone else to pen his letters, which he then signs and seals and forwards as if he wrote them himself. "My informant in Solitude raises some excellent points: it's like the Emperor—or a lookalike—is waiting for something to happen. Why else would he still be here? He wasn't _that_ close to Vittoria Vici, and the funerary arrangements were handled weeks ago."

"Whom do you suspect?" Ulfric asked without looking up from the paper.

"There are three agencies who could do it if they seriously tried. The Thalmor, the Dark Brotherhood, and the Morag Tong. The Morag Tong work almost exclusive in Morrowind, as you doubtless know, only putting a foot across borders on occasion. They may be expanding. This might be the Dark Brotherhood's announcement that they're making a comeback."

"Gods, I hope not," Ulfric breathed, looking up from the paper.

"And it doesn't benefit the Thalmor to cause the kind of civic unrest that would follow assassinating Titus Mede—unless they meant to open up another war."

"I don't think they will," Galmar said stolidly. "Skyrim is enough unrest. Add to that and what do they have? Chaos. More than even they might want to deal with." That was exceptionally logical and deep-thinking of him. I wish he would be that way more often.

"In which case there's a silver lining if the Emperor _is_ assassinated. At the very least, this letter allows us to deny involvement with some veracity if it happens. We warned them of the possibility, we gave them the most likely culprit we could find."

"And this Dunmer you've set up?" Galmar asked a little sourly.

It took me a moment to grasp his meaning, but it left me grimacing. "I don't need to make something up or pin it on some convenient peon. I understand that's the limit of _your_ methodology, so I'm not offended," I answered tartly. "She _does_ exist and _is_ wanted in connection with the murder of Nilsine Shatter-Shield, who was originally listed among the Butcher's victims, an assumption overturned by my investigation."

Galmar shifted uncomfortably.

"And she was described as having the Morrowindan accent, certainly left Windhelm to go to Morrowind. Assuming she's not a simple traveler, it's entirely possible she's Morag Tong. In which case they're either expanding, or her work here was finished and she was simply returning to Morrowind. But the timeframe of the Nilsine Shatter-Shield murder and this woman's departure as witnessed by one of my sources suggests that Nilsine was not her only business here."

Ulfric exhaled deeply, then signed the paper, sealing it quickly as if part of him resented sharing any kind of information with 'the enemy.' "If the Emperor is assassinated, what can we do?"

The rich flavor of my mead swept across my tongue as I settled back in my chair. "Right now, you can write to your fellow Jarls—supporters and non-supporters—with this Dunmer's description, and your concerns that she means to assassinate someone. I'm sure you can cleverly suggest without _actually_ accusing her of planning to assassinate each Jarl in turn in individual letters. They'll keep a weather eye out to protect their own skins whereas they might be a little more lax otherwise."

Ulfric nodded to this, but said nothing.

"If the Emperor is assassinated, then as Galmar said, there will be chaos that even the Thalmor might have trouble controlling. I don't think it would be hard to start a rumor that _they_ actually backed the Dark Brotherhood's activities. I'm sure such a rumor would take in Markarth, and you never know how beneficial that kind of destabilization will be."

"How are things in Markarth?" Ulfric asked.

"Excellent. My man on the inside has gone and proved reliable at starting rumors and letting them circulate and grow. He reports that the Forsworn are a deep thorn in the sides of the Hold. My man in Madanach's camp—" I had to pause to take in the gob-smacked expressions. "Yes, my man—lad, really—in Madanach's camp reports as he's able without compromising his cover. Mostly logistical information: numbers, magic-users, weapons, social climates. Things that will be useful when the time to curb the Forsworn comes. He's focused mostly on making sure he can stay close enough to Madanach to stab him in the back when I give the order."

Ulfric studied me for along moment. "Can he get out on your order?"

"If he can't, there will be a watcher ready to put an arrow through his eye, and give him a clean death." This answer didn't seem to please either man. I suppose it sounds much colder than it really is. I do want the lad to escape if possible. But killing Madanach is worth his life. And if he kills Madanach but bungles getting out, an arrow from an ally is _far_ kinder than what the Forsworn will do to him. They'll literally tear him to pieces, nice and slow, over the course of several days. "How was your walk through the Snow Quarter?"

Ulfric's mouth twisted. Finally, when it became apparent I wasn't going to continue without an answer, "I survived. And no one threw any eggs or produce."

Of course not. They'd be too surprised to see him.

"And your chat with Brunwulf Free-Winter?"

Ulfric twitched his shoulders. "I'd forgotten what a good man he is."

Ah, such a nice, diplomatic, empty answer.

"And while we're on internal matters… are you aware of the shipping problems the East Empire Company has been having?"

"Are they having problems?" Ulfric looked over to Jorleif, who straightened in his corner.

"Gross problems. But, as they are a private company, there's been no grounds for us to interfere. And they certainly haven't asked for help," Jorleif answered promptly. "They pay their tithes and taxes, albeit at a reduced rate given their reduced circumstances."

"I think their circumstances are being reduced, which means a reduction in my lord's income. In time of war, no less."

Galmar looked thunderous at this lack of patriotism; Jorleif looked appalled.

Ulfric simply frowned. "How?"

"Hired pirates."

"Whom?"

"I believe Clan Shatter-Shield to be involved. _Their_ business seems to be going quite well. But my lord," the interruption didn't seem unwarranted: Ulfric looked ready to jump up and dispatch a messenger to haul the clan's patriarch before him _immediately._ "It would be better to allow me to finish resolving this matter, myself. Rest assured, I can and will deal with the pirates. But sanctioning the Shatter-Shields under the table can yield greater results than your understandable anger might exact."

Ulfric glowered, as if he didn't quite trust my empty politeness.

"For instance, in return for not bringing this matter to you—and bringing your anger down on their heads—I can leverage better working conditions and wages for the Argonian workers. If I am attached to this improvement, you will be indirectly attached to it. The Shatter-Shields will be punished enough: having to pay their workers properly will cut deeply into their profit margins. And I can always change the deal if need be. They would, I'm sure, rather not face you after their antics cut into your treasury during time of war."

"Blackmail," Galmar grimaced as if tasting something terrifically unpleasant.

"That's one reason I brought her on, old friend," Ulfric observed mildly. "I'd like to see what all you plan to get out of this arrangement. As a point of curiosity."

"Of course, my lord. I'll have it written up in a day or two. Do I need to wait for your approval of the plan before I press forward?"

"No. I'm simply curious. Any word on the Dragonborn?" He knows I'll tell him when I know something. But the subject on hand was clearly ended for the purposes of discussion.

"None as yet, my lord."

-L-

(Delivered from Whiterun by courier)

Second Seed 22

To my dear Mme. Ashlynn,

Ralof is a kind man—an artisan out of Riverwood. I met him on the road and he ended by assisting me with some very painful personal difficulties in the northwestern part of the Province. If you know me at all, you know what for, as I'd prefer not to speak of it.

Truth be told, I'm incredibly fond of him, but I fear such happy futures are not intended for me. My work occupies such a large portion of my time and attention (to the extent that I haven't set a single stitch for my _trousseau_ ). But he is content to wait, as I've requested, so he has time to think better of his interest in me.

And, if I've somehow blinded him with my charisma, then it has time to wear off.

It worries me that he'll wake up one day and realize that, perhaps, we're not a good fit. I wouldn't want him to be unhappy.

But there, perhaps I'm so used to trouble I've started going out of my way to borrow it. Suffice it to say, what while he isn't incredibly clever or very rich, he's a good man which is much the better. What good—as you once asked me yourself—is a clever man who happily sharpens his cutting wit on you, or a rich man who wishes you to remain on the shelf he designated for you?

Yours, very truly,

Lady Grey


	37. Chapter 37

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80, who looked over this chapter. ^_^

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk.)

Ysolda's House, Whiterun

Second Seed 23

Dear Leandra,

I was a little surprised when Vignar Grey-Mane asked me to forward a letter to you as quickly as I could. The man needs to work on his people skills, doesn't he? A bit terse for someone asking a favor. If he hadn't said you were waiting to hear from him, I'd have told him to hire a courier like any other honest man. As it was, I charged him a pittance for using our private business system for his personal whatever, since you didn't warn me he'd be using our hawk.

It is a wonderful way to communicate, isn't it? So much safer and reliable than couriers.

Do I sound out of sorts? Ugh. I'm sorry. It's not really Vignar (who paid up without a fuss). It's that trip that ran through Falkreath. Normally, I enjoy passing through there, but apparently Dengeir's… condition… has taken a turn for the worse. Some out-of-town personage sat too close to his chair and he raised _such_ a fuss! I'm not exaggerating: he was going on like someone threatened him, and hands were going towards mead bottles and weapons in case he exploded all over the place. I was waiting for him to do so!

Tekla and Valga managed to talk him down, but the _look_ he gave them… it made me shiver.

Anyway, I've been worrying over that. The man is clearly off his rocker, and something _must_ be done before he hurts someone! I'm all for honoring our heroes and respecting our elders, but not to the point of letting them hurt someone because of the bent their madness is taking. I wonder, do you have any suggestions? Poor Narri—you know her, she's such a dear and such a sunny-souled person—was almost in tears.

Yours,

Ysolda

-L-

(Enclosed in Ysolda's letter.)

Jorrvaskr, Whiterun

Second Seed 23

To Madame Grey,

The men you wanted to protect that investment in Whiterun's future about which you spoke to me have been found. I will stand surety that they will do what you ask, when you ask, how you ask it, without trying to think about anything beforehand unless otherwise instructed. They're smart enough to follow the directions of those who know better.

Also, the investment's current caretaker is fiercely protective. If she felt the investment would be better served by aiding your plans, she would certainly not hesitate to do so. She has not been approached at this time, but is a relation of one of the men I mentioned. Something for you to consider.

Cordially,

Vignar Grey-Mane

-L-

(Forwarded from Whiterun)

Proudspire Manor, Solitude

Second Seed 24

From the desk of Mme. Ashlynn

To my dear Lady Grey,

I speak from my great love for you, my dear: take that steaming pile of mammoth shit and toss it out the nearest window. You're thinking too hard, again. I love you, darling, and you're one of those people who is either loved or disliked, but _rarely_ anything in-between and even more rarely is one state mistaken for the other.

As for not having set a stitch for your _trousseau_ , this message should come accompanied by those assembled by my late daughters. Goodness knows I have no use for them. I would rather find them a good home than let them be consumed by moths. You know I'm not overly sentimental. If you find them not to your liking, sell them or send them to the nearest charitable effort—it's all one to me. They bring back memories that are… painful.

Speaking of painful, my husband's health has begun to fail in earnest after bringing him news that our family was now bereft of both its children. I know you aren't fond of Marcus, but I trust in your fondness for me: if he cannot rally himself, it is entirely possible the Box of Wonders may come up for sale in the next year or eighteen months as he will be unable to manage it himself, and currently has no one trustworthy to delegate its running to. As you know, we have a substantial client base and many connections the enterprising young entrepreneur might find useful. If you have a business partner or a trusted clerk who could manage the place, I think you would find yourself not the loser.

Just something to think about.

Yours,

Mme. Ashlynn

-L-

(Message hawk intercepted before delivery completed.)

Second Seed 25

Le Hotel de Marguerite, Rue Lorraine

High Rock

To Lady Grey of Windhelm,

Having given the matter much thought, and finding my wife favorable with regards to traveling for this project, I will gladly come to your cold country to see what my gifts can do for your poor palace—the Palace of the Kings. Such a name! And a building of distinguished heritage! _Oh la_ , the anticipation makes the blood sing in my veins! I shall do it! Indeed, it shall be a marvelous reprieve from the requests for ornamenting holy edifices that have become much of my bread-and-butter work. Not abating the respect I have for the clergy, but they do lack imagination!

Ah, let me not weary your gracious eyes with the troubles of a humble artist! Truly, with all I have heard of your stricken Province, such woes are far beneath consideration.

My family—without whom I refuse to take one step, not even a little hop-skip, abroad, as I cannot bear to be separated from them—and I will leave shortly after the sending of this letter, and arrive in Windhelm between the sixth and ninth of Midyear. We are a party of four: myself, my lovely wife Marguerite, and our two magnificent children, Anne and Henri. I hope their presence will not strain the household for which you seem responsible, dear lady, but as I said, I never travel alone and as the patron of this project is a king in his land, I hope he will not object either. You need not concern yourself about the children: they are well-behaved, and old enough to know how to conduct themselves when visiting.

I greatly look forward to meeting you and to seeing this space which troubles you so.

Yours most sincerely,

M. Roche-Guyon

-L-

Knowing from Suvaris' journal that I needed to find one Stig Salt-Plank, and find out what he knew, I set forth on horse for Dawnstar, taking Mjoll with me.

I did mildly regret the trouble my meddling was causing poor Suvaris, when I saw her devouring a massive plate of one of Candlehearth's richest desserts as if she would find an answer to a burning question at the bottom. The poor dear does watch what she eats so _closely_ ; that decadent dessert just ensured she pays several days of penance for the splurge.

With reports coming in from so many locales as my sources expand and become more adept at gathering information for me, as well as my regular correspondences with Ysolda (and others) about our legitimate business, I'd begun to wonder if I didn't need a private secretary to help me manage at least the less sensitive bits. Suvaris would be a good choice. If she believed I was truly interested and dedicated to reforming some of the problems Windhelm is experiencing thanks to Ulfric's permissiveness in how his 'true sons and daughters of Skyrim' tripe was interpreted by the masses, she'd be a very dedicated assistant if it meant her mouth (and her people's needs) were being directed to someone with open ears and the capacity to do something. Mjoll has a reputation as a friend to the friendless, and I've maintained cordial relations with Suvaris since settling in Windhelm.

That, and I will feel responsible if the Shatter-Shields fire her over this mess. They might just do it, once my planned trap springs shut. Spite is not an unheard-of thing, nor are scapegoats.

Shaking myself, I glanced around Dawnstar. It's a ramshackle capital for a Hold to have, barely a fishing village on the northern coast of the Sea of Ghosts. But it is the biggest town in the Pale, and that makes it the capital. It looks, in this light, like a town built from the wreckage of unlucky ships. Like Falkreath and Morthal, it's a minor Hold, and its minority shows.

And apparently someone had troubles of their own: one of the residences seemed to have been burned to the very ground, but not rebuilt.

Ostensibly, I was here to deliver the letter from Ulfric, detailing this mysterious Dunmer potential assassin, and warning Jarl Skald the Elder to be mindful of his own safety. This was done in about two minutes, since it didn't really require conversation, just me presenting myself as a humble courier contracted to deliver the notice.

Mjoll was already at the Windpeak Inn, plopped comfortably near the fire-pit in the middle of the room… and close enough that if the band of rowdy sailors got _too_ rowdy, she'd be on hand to do something to discourage them before things got out of hand.

"—we've got other plans for our mouths, dearie," one of the sailors leered at Karita, the very pretty barmaid—who fancies herself a bard more than a barmaid—as he spoke.

Karita, eyes wary and looking ready to bolt across the room to get out of reach, took two steps back and stumbled when she stepped back and found Mjoll's toes with her heel. "Oh!"

"Do those plans involve wrapping it around my _fist_?" Mjoll asked flatly, her eyes narrowing. She put a hand out to steady Karita, then gently pushed the girl back behind her. Mjoll is _very_ Nordic in her looks, tall and muscular for a woman, and above all—unlike these idiots—not the least bit intoxicated. So to draw herself up too her full height possessed dramatic effect.

"Karita?" I called from the door, then moved further into the room.

The sailors didn't bother noticing my arrival, being concerned with Mjoll, but Karita was glad to have a way to get out of the impending fight. "Yes? What can I get you?" she asked, in the tone of someone hoping something bad wouldn't happen if she pretended it wasn't likely to.

"Warm wine, please."

"Or maybe—"

Whatever undoubtedly lewd comment the unwashed sailor meant to make—I do wonder why they forget that women in Skyrim are made of stern stuff—it never got past his teeth, because Mjoll's fist knocked the remark (and possibly a couple teeth) right back down his throat. He hit the ground like a felled tree.

"I suggest you finish your drinking elsewhere, if you can't do it respectably," Mjoll declared idly, shaking out her fist.

Thank goodness she had gloves on. I worry what that oaf's teeth—and their undoubtedly questionable condition—would have done to her hand!

A moment of silence followed, during which Mjoll continued glowering and cracking her knuckles deliberately, one by one.

Then with one explosion of motion, the fight was on!

Now, normally one woman against four or five men, even a woman as formidable as Mjoll, is going to have a serious problem. However, before the tide could turn out of her favor (or before I could step in and things get bloody, because I don't believe in fistfights if I'm participating) the first sailor knocked into the table which one fellow—certainly a member of the crew—had not abandoned when the tension began rising. He'd remained fixedly attending the task of feeding himself with the unhurriedness of disinterest in other people's chaos.

"Damn ye! All of ye!" he bellowed in a voice that would easily cut across the deck in a terrible sea storm. "Ye blighted whoresons!" His first punch laid out the fellow whose impact with the table knocked over the goblet of wine the man had been drinking, drenching his plate of food with the liquid.

"I told ye—drink as ye like, play as ye like, but _don't drag me_ _into your troubles_!" Still shouting and cursing freely—it was a _spectacular_ display of seaman's slang, let me tell you, and distracted at least one fellow (probably the youngest member of the crew) so completely that when Mjoll, seeing his inertia, gave him a shove to get him out of the way, he simply stumbled to one side but remained otherwise inactive.

The fellow shouting—and I assumed he _must_ be the captain, the man I was looking for—sailed in, half belaboring his own men, half herding them to the door with his blows and noise to keep them from a fight they mightn't be able to win, numbers or no numbers. From the look he shot me, I suspect he recognized that someone like me wouldn't travel alone and that Mjoll fit the bill if one wondered 'who would travel as guardian for a fine lady like that one there.'

The last one to the door (carrying the unconscious fellow who took Mjoll's sucker punch at the start of the fight) received this fellow's boot to his backside, quite literally. From the sound, he made an ungraceful landing, tangled with his unconscious cohort. "Back to the ship with ye!" the captain fumed at his companions, wholly ignoring the panting, somewhat off-balance Mjoll. "And I'd better be able to invite me own mother to eat off any deck of that vessel without fear or shame! D'ye hear me! I want it _glaring under the sun_! They'd better see shining all the way in _Atmora_ , damn ye!" He slammed the door so forcefully it bounced open. He slammed it again, this time it stuck.

He turned to Mjoll, glowering in consideration, then nodded once, stomping back to his corner, eying his wine-covered plate and empty goblet morosely… which quickly morphed into a fresh wave of exasperation. He jumped to his feet, bounded for the door, wrenched it open and howled into the night, "And ye'll do it on _hands and knees_ , you filthy skeever-spawn! With your _tongues_ if needs be! _There's_ good use for your mouths tonight, lads!" He slammed the door again, still fuming.

By now, I half expected actual steam to begin issuing from his ears.

"Madame?" Karita called softly, holding up a goblet of wine, but looking rather unsure of how to take this dealing-with of the disruptive element.

I fished out the coin for it, then added a few more. "That man. He's Stig Salt-Plank, is he not?"

"Yes," Karita nodded, eyeing him with mild distaste.

"Give him another plate and cup of whatever he was having. On me." With that, I selected a table with a good view of the room and settled at it.

Karita arched her eyebrows, but carried the order to the bar, where it was filled. When Karita deposited the order with Stig, he said something gruffly—probably saying he wasn't doing anything chivalrous or gallant on her account, and I believe him—to which she responded by a gesture to me.

Stig, grimacing glanced back at me, eyed me as if he didn't quite know what to think, then shrugged, tipped his head noncommittally, and set to eating as if nothing had happened to interrupt him in the first place.

"How's your hand?" I asked Mjoll, once she'd relocated to sit across from me.

"It's fine." She pulled her glove off to inspect her knuckles.

The teeth marks in the leather of her glove indicated several missing, and…

"That's disgusting," I grimaced, delicately plucking part of a decaying tooth out of the leather.

Mjoll snorted. "Common for seamen. If you'll take my advice, stick with your young man, my thane. Don't go wondering if seafarers are worth a look. They aren't."

I had to laugh at this. "I wasn't even a little curious."

"Then if _you_ ever go to sea, drink lots of the juice of citrons. It's supposed to help with your teeth."

Citrons in Skyrim? No wonder the sailor has tooth problems if he was relying on such a thing. There has to be a better way.

The city watch, led by a lad I hadn't noticed depart, burst into the Inn. The boy disappeared into the kitchen, as if he had no hand in bringing the watch.

"You're late," Thoring, who owned the bar and is Karita's father, growled. "I was about to give those bastards what-for," he put a cudgel on the bar, "and I wasn't the only one! You're lucky no one got killed! That lady there means _business_ and is doing yours!" he pointed at Mjoll, who with a lazy grin, waved at one watchman… and winked at another, who gave a slight squeak and looked _thoroughly_ discomforted.

Now, while Thoring hadn't stepped in, I don't doubt he would have if a fight had started or if one of those thugs put a hand on his girl. And if they thought getting lambasted by Stig was bad, I think it would have been worse to be assailed by an angry father. Possibly why Stig was so rough with them: maybe Thoring would remember the timely intervention and wouldn't ban him from the establishment, because the rest of the crew certainly wouldn't be welcome after this.

Mjoll's grin made me think the watchman might have been a youthful misadventure and just not made of stern enough stuff. He certainly went from pale to red, to the point that his nearest companion wanted to know what was wrong.

Karita, still looking out of sorts—by now grimacing with anger rather than with fear—filled a cup and brought it to Mjoll, murmuring, 'no charge.'

By the time the city watch left, I'd sent two more glasses of wine in Stig's direction. With the inn's common room finally quiet, I requested two rooms, then left Mjoll to join Stig, who was half dozing on the bench in the warmth of the fire.

Now, three goblets full of wine for a career sailor used to standing his liquor is really neither here nor there. However, three goblets full of wine for a man—even a career sailor—who's apparently been drinking most of the evening is more than enough to mellow his mood.

"Stig Salt-Plank, isn't it?" I asked.

Stig jerked awake, trying to eye me blearily. "Sure it is," he answered suspiciously. "Listen, if don't care of that buxom wench is a friend of yours or not: I'd not have raised a little finger if that oaf Ulrich hadn't gone and dumped me drink in me plate," he grumped. "Let her daddy raise goose-eggs on their hard heads, if they're going to be stupid. Lesson'll stick better."

Up close, his face showed lines that his chiseled shoulders and fit form did not. He wasn't quite old enough to be my father, but he was closer to that generation than to mine.

"I'm not here to talk about Karita," I answered. "I'm here to talk about the Blood Hoarkers. You sail for them, don't you?" A bit more up-front than I intended, but Stig's show of temper, his grumping and his age suggested I didn't need to be subtle.

"For nine years now," Stig agreed, but the line of his shoulders tensed. "What's it to you?"

"To me? Nothing in the world. To my client… well. There's lots to gold to be had plundering ships, isn't there?"

Stig swiveled so he could face me, leaning one elbow on the table. The gesture was perfectly casual, easy and unhurried. It also put him in a good position to pull that boot knife I don't think he knew I knew about. I carry one, too, so I know what to look for.

"Now, Master Salt-Plank, there's no need for this conversation to turn unpleasant." I gave his boot, and the hand lingering near the top of it, an accusing look. "I'm not looking to cause you trouble."

"Just the Blood Hoarkers."

"Well, if you wish to tell them to abandon their deal with the Shatter-Shields, and if you think they'll do so, then I daresay I won't need to."

Stig's eyebrows arched, his sun-browned skin crinkling like old leather. "I don't think anyone'll be talking them out of that. It's a good deal. War keeps the Empire nice and occupied. This is our… golden age." But something in Stig's grimace said he was quoting, and the words weren't quite to his taste. "You East Empire?"

"Not in the least. I represent certain Windhelm interests."

"That so?" By now, I think Stig smelled an opportunity.

I waved Karita to bring us both a drink, which she did. Stig ignored his, even though I immediately sipped mine. "You're right. I'm going to cause a great deal of trouble for the Blood Hoarkers. But I think I'd rather not cause as much trouble for you. You've much experience at sea, do you not?"

Stig snorted, which was disgusting because something caught on the rim of his nostrils and wiggled gummily until he wiped it away and wiped his hand on his trousers. "Since I were eighteen."

An idea hit me, quite distracting me from my inner distaste for this unwashed sailor. "Blue water experience?"

He gave me a withering look that clearly conveyed contempt for a 'landlubber' trying to sound nautical.

"I'll take that as a yes." I've had thoughts about a possible navy in Windhelm's future. It's a port city, but fails to take full advantage of the fact. Even if I couldn't get Ulfric on board—so to speak—with the navy idea, a few trade vessels of my own someday wouldn't go amiss.

Now, I know very little about oceans and boats and the like. A fellow like Stig, however… a lifetime on the sea has to impart _something_ useful besides a resistance to seasickness. More than that, if he's been a lifetime at sea, the 'Nords only' viewpoint isn't likely to be especially strong: you get a lot of Argonians and other kinds of people in a port or on ships. And at his age… I wonder if he's ready to leave the sea and start delegating to other people. Once I have the Shatter-Shields where I want them, wrangling an overseer's position for an accomplished seafarer wouldn't be difficult. Then, I would have advice for the navy I want whenever the time is ripe to consider it in earnest.

"I have the impression you're not much enchanted with the leadership."

Stig grimaced, cocking his head. "It's a young man's game," he said bitterly. "You saw the idiots I'm wrangling. It's not 'cuz I'm good and can whip 'em into shape. I could. But it's 'cuz no one else wants to deal with their stupid barnacle-lined brainpans. Not a lot of my sort left."

I take this to mean the old seadogs. Piracy is piracy, but there are always levels of how bloodthirsty it's permissible to be—this varies from band to band—before it becomes 'unbecoming.' Bandits are sometimes the same way. "No, I imagine not. I need the name of the man running the show."

"No." Stig shook his head, then disappeared behind his wine. "Not my favorite person, that lad. Nor I his. But he's a clever little bugger. Makes sure the battles end right-way up. That's something, in my line of work. Drowning's an ugly way to go."

I leaned on the table as Stig was, considering the money I had with me and the wisdom of simply offering him a bribe straight out. "Let's say I wanted to… contribute to your retirement. Who would be the one complaining that I took one of his steadiest captains away?"

Stig chuckled, his teeth—in questionable condition, but probably not the sort to shear off and stick in someone's glove—flashing. He considered. "Two hundred gold." His tone said he didn't believe I had it on me.

He was right. But give me ten minutes at the nearest general store and I'll have it. "I see. Well, I shall see you tomorrow morning, Captain."

Stig looked confused, as if I'd done something strange. I suppose he figured I would simply withdraw meekly at the naming of a price so high. He shook himself, shrugged, then finished his wine. "I sail at the turn of the tide." He addressed the comment to the cup, not to me.

It was my turn to grimace. We've already established I'm a land-bound sort of woman. "What does that even _mean_?"

When I didn't get up, when it became apparent I meant to wait for a real answer, Stig laughed aloud. He also explained the phrase and what it meant with regards to Dawnstar local time.


	38. Chapter 38

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for looking over this chapter!

-L-

Fortunately for me, it wasn't horrifically late. So although Rustleif was a little annoyed at having his evening interrupted, he wasn't so annoyed that he wouldn't do business with me at all, for which I was grateful.

So at some-time-dark-thirty, I approached the Blue Siren—Stig Salt-Plank's vessel—with a fat purse and a head full of nascent plans.

Mjoll followed closely at my shoulder, crunching the frosty ground underfoot rather loudly. She had her best mercenary swagger on this morning, and looked like a woman expecting a fight (a fight, moreover, which she would _win_ ).

"Halt! Whadda ya want?" the sentry demanded crankily.

"Madame Grey to see Captain Salt-Plank," I answered, stopping while I gave the names. Then, without being invited, I strode up the gangplank. "I'm expected."

The sailor—bearing the mark of a fist to his mouth—eyed Mjoll cautiously, almost to the point of ignoring me.

The aura of capability in violent confrontation seemed to ooze off her like an aura, just daring this fellow to start something with one of us.

"Wait here," he said gruffly, then hurried along the very clean deck. He was back in a moment, looking more out of temper than ever. "He'll see ya."

The ship, one of the long, thin models used mostly in Skyrim, was deceptively small. From the outside, it looked like a long, narrow vessel with a tiny hut perched towards the back. The hut actually led belowdecks, revealing both space for storage, the roomy captain's quarters, and oar benches for the crew to man when winds failed to move the ship.

Stig, looking rumpled but not unaccustomed to the early hour, rubbed his eyes blearily as he regarded me—rather ignoring Mjoll. "It's an early morning for a fine lady like yourself," he observed.

"Fine lady? I'm flattered, but I do work for a living, Captain," I responded amiably, producing the heavy purse of two hundred gold coins, which I set on the table containing his maps and charts. "For your retirement fund. Now, who will be complaining to me?"

Stig didn't answer right away. Rather, he felt the bag, then opened it, pouring the contents not onto the table, but onto his blanket-lined hammock so it would make less noise, as if he suspected the sound of coins clinking would draw his crew like nothing else. He counted the coins within. "You're fifty over."

"Because I would like you to consider a further proposition. Merely listen, I ask nothing else."

Stig arched his eyebrows, scooping the gold quietly back into its bag.

"Should you find retirement less comfortable than you hoped, or should you simply grow bored with it, come see me in Windhelm. I entertain dreams of my own fleet." Best to leave it a little vague as to whether it's mercantile or military. "And I believe you, Captain, are just the man with the working knowledge to realize that dream. It does no good for someone like me to try to run a nautical venture."

By now, Stig looked a little off-balance, in the fashion of men who aren't used to being surprised. That is, it was more pronounced because it didn't happen very often.

"If you find yourself in Windhelm, you need only ask for Madame Grey of Hjerim. Any guard can direct you. I daresay I could wrangle a job for you at one of the shipping offices until I'm in a position to begin building my fleet."

Stig recovered quickly from his unvarnished surprise: his expression grew shrewd, calculating… and wary, like he scented danger but wasn't sure what form it would take. "You wanted a name," he said simply. "Haldyn. A battle-mage of some cunning."

Damn. Why couldn't he be a normal pirate? Safer to handle. Never mind. I've killed mages before. It's not really difficult, it simply takes additional preparation. Anti-coagulant on the arrows, something to restrict his magicka.

"Thank you, Captain."

"Aye. Now, off you go." However, Stig escorted Mjoll and me all the way to the gangplank and saw us off.

Within minutes of our departure, he was shouting and swearing at his crew with all the vigor of a man well-pleased but wishing to hide it from others.

"Bit of a character, isn't he?" Mjoll asked, wrinkling her nose.

"To say the least," I agreed, shivering. "Let's get a drop at the tavern before we set off. Something to take off the chill of the morning."

"Sounds like just the thing, my thane… speaking of, why didn't you tell him who you were?"

"Doesn't everyone like surprises?" The answer is generally 'no,' but anyone can _say_ they're a thane. Better if he discovers it on his own, in a way that dismisses the possibility of me lying to make myself impressive.

Mjoll let out a bark of laughter, but let the subject drop.

-L-

(Delivered by dedicated message hawk.)

26 Second Seed

Madame,

Your suspicions about Grey Pine Goods were correct. Solaf is dead. He came snooping where no decent man should. We keep good watch, and he tried to make a fight of it. Threw his body into the lake, where it was found. His death was immediately attributed to bandits.

His brother, Bolund, showed up a few days later, clearly ready to kill someone. Wasn't expecting us, but believed our story of having only just cleared out the scum here. He's sympathetic to the cause; I picked up that he wasn't thrilled with Solaf's dealings. Guess he figured they'd go sour sooner or later. Well, sure enough, they did as far as he's concerned. He made noise about bandits at Halted Stream Camp being responsible, so we went and dealt with them. Grey Pine Goods will continue helping us move the hoard down here, but there won't be anymore selling bandit spoils.

Apparently Siddgeir owns the shop on paper. Ignorant or not, I imagine you could implicate him in inexcusable wrongdoing quite handily. He's happy the bandits are gone. He doesn't know about us or our arrangement with Bolund. Bolund thinks he won't even notice Solaf is dead as long as his portion of the profits continues to come in.

Rumors are circulating that Dengeir's taking a turn for the worse. I think Valga would ban him from the Drink if she didn't think it would make things worse. I've started rotating my men down to the Drink to make sure someone competent is there in case he goes too far. Those ladies have enough to worry about without fears of a good man gone sour. I have some doubts about the city watch's willingness to get involved in any meaningful way if he does snap.

Petitions to the Jarl by citizens to do something about Dengeir have been simply ignored. The men aren't happy. I daresay most of them would be willing to pick a fight with the man and end things quickly rather than wait for him to hurt someone—probably one of those girls at the Drink, or his housecarl. Give the word, Madame, and I'll see to it personally.

Geirlund

-L-

(Delivered by courier.)

28 Second Seed

Dead Man's Drink, Falkreeth

To Madam Leeandra Gray,

Madam, my name is Narri and I work for Valga at the Dead Man's Drink. You have helped us before, and Miss Yeesolda hinted you might be able to help us again. As you know, the former yarl, Dengare, is unwell. His mind is leeving him. In some old men, they become mellow and gentle. In him, he grows angry and harsh. Unpredictable. I am afrade. So are Valga and Tekla. Everyone knows he is going to lash out eventually but no one knows or wants to do something about it.

You are considered a clever woman. I do not want anyone hurt by his madness. It is wrong that someone has to be hurt before someone does something about him. What can I do? Whatever it is, I will do it. Just tell me.

Thank you.

Narri

-L-

Mother's letter carrying her faith in me, and Narri's letter full of fear, crumpled in my hand as I regarded the twin chests, elegantly carved, beautiful as the hopes and dreams of innocent young women with dreams of a happy future could wish. The _trousseaux_ represented a happier time, before everything soured and turned inside out.

I suppose I can send Lucinda's to Ysolda. Or give it to Svana. It could represent a fine dowry if she converted even a portion of it into coin.

With a sigh, I opened the chest I recognized as mine, laying things out on the bed or various other surfaces.

What about Dengeir? It sounds to me that Narri is feeling the squeeze to take matters into her own hands. A tight fist around her lungs that will probably drive her to do something foolish before Dengeir can snap. She'll end up dead or badly hurt if she tries anything. Narri's not a fighter, and Dengeir—descending into madness or not—is a warrior. And Telka will be obliged to join on his side, whatever she feels personally, if someone else starts something.

I exhaled slowly. There are two ways to handle Dengeir that I can see: permanent confinement or assassination. Now, I did promise Ulfric no unsanctioned assassinations, and Ulfric has plans to reinstall Dengeir as Jarl of Falkreath.

However, Falkreath needs leadership dedicated to Falkreath more than it needs anything else. After years of Siddgeir's mismanagement, it's not in a good place. In fact, I'd go so far as to worry that with Dengeir in charge, Falkreath might collapse to the point that it might find itself annexed piecemeal by the three nearest Holds. That means an even number of voices in the Moot. One reason we have an odd number of Holds is because it's a way of preventing ties when the Moot meets and votes.

I chewed on my lip, looking at Narri's increasingly shaky penmanship and her unpracticed spelling. I doubt confinement will work. Firstly, you need a place _to_ keep him, and he hasn't done anything to imprison him over. However, I've had what, three people, confess concerns over him to me. If he can't be detained, he has to be dealt with. That's the cold, hard truth. And the best way to avoid imputations of assassination against _me_ would be to have him killed in a way that won't surprise anyone. Especially if Geirlund is worried enough to stake out the Dead Man's Drink to ensure someone is there to respond if that's where Dengeir snaps.

Ideally, that means a frenzy potion slipped into his drink. Difficult, since he's so paranoid, but no one would pay attention to any complaint he makes about taste being off. And no one would be surprised if he snapped one day, since everyone I'm in contact with in the area seems to be waiting for it to happen.

I sighed, then fished out my book of alchemy notes. The simplest way to induce a frenzy is to introduce a frenzy potion—or a powder, which activates when mixed with a liquid—into his drink. So what goes in a good frenzy potion?

Mushrooms, mostly. Lucky for me, mushrooms are usually bland of flavor. And I'll bet Nurelion has any one of these ingredients on hand.

-L-

1 Midyear

Narri,

I've heard concerning things similar to what you have told me from a variety of sources. If it comes down to a question of Dengeir exploding all over someone before anything will be done for him, I'm afraid the only thing to do is to control the time and place of the unavoidable explosion. If it is going to happen, better to happen when it is expected, yes? The courier will give you an envelope of powder. All you have to do is add it to Dengeir's drink some evening and swirl it in well. It won't hurt him, but it will send him into a violent rage to which someone must respond. I'm sure there are good citizens among the inn's company.

Now, this potion is only good for seven days. If you haven't used it by the seventh of Midyear, it won't work at all.

I'm afraid this is the best solution I can come up with, though I'll understand if you would rather not use it.

-L-

1 Midyear

Geirlund:

Prepare for trouble with Dengeir. It seems like everyone is telling me how unstable he is. While I cannot condone simply assassinating him at this time, it would be well for someone to be ready to respond. Surely the break can't be long in coming. Give it a week. If he hasn't snapped by then, we'll consider other methods.

Leandra

-L-

I frowned at the two letters. Technically, what I told Narri isn't true: the shelf life for powdered reagents such as I included with her letter varies, but is rarely as short-lived as I indicated. The simple fact is, I don't want her getting cold feet, then feeling squeezed and using the stuff when Geirlund lets his guard down. She's contributing to someone's death; I expect she'll have qualms about what she's going to do. She might still bow out and decide letting someone—perhaps even herself—get hurt is better than contributing to someone's death. We'll see.

In the meantime, I assembled the letters bearing concern about Dengeir's mental state. At the very least, I can submit them to Ulfric and see if they can't sway him away from his dedication to returning Dengeir to the Jarlship of Falkreath. I daresay the more it looks like I'm involved with above-board dealing with Dengeir, the less likely it will be that Ulfric suspects (or can prove) foul play.

Truly, I feel a little badly over murdering a man in this fashion and for these reasons. It would be better if there was a safe place to put him that wasn't prison. It would be better if there was a way to… to undo, or mediate the slow decline that brought us to this point. It's something to which I might give some thought. But, for now, I must do the best I can, and what's best for the masses is that Dengeir _not_ be allowed to lash out at innocent bystanders.

"My lady?" Svana called from the door.

I looked up from the packet of papers in my hand, focusing on her face. It struck me rather forcibly how much _better_ she looked than when I found her in Riften. Her figure, a little skinny with mean living, had begun to plump up and even without makeup her face was rosy and pretty. For a moment, I teetered on giving her Lucinda's _trousseau_ on the spot. I know Lucinda would rather it go to Svana than Ysolda. Ysolda is a businesswoman; if things play out in our favor, she'll be an _affluent_ businesswoman before I hit thirty. She's in a position to make her way in the world and secure herself a good match.

Svana is not.

Yes, I think Lucinda would like that.

However, I'm not one to act in haste and repent at leisure. Svana is a wonderful housekeeper and cook. I'd be sorry to lose her.

"Yes, Svana?"

"You've a visitor, my lady. A representative of the East Empire Company, she said. She asked me to give you this," Svana held out a piece of parchment, folded and pressed as if carried close to the bearer's skin.

That's… unexpected. I put the packet of letters concerning Dengeir away safely, then took the paper.

-L-

Proudspire Manor, Solitude

Second Seed, 26

From the desk of Mme. Ashlynn

Lady Grey:

Pardon me for contacting you directly, but considering your stance on their troubles, when the opportunity to point the East Empire Company to a sympathetic ear arose, I took it. Please let this serve as a proper introduction to Adelaisa Vindicci, one of the Company's 'fixers.' Apparently, they've had some trouble getting agents into Windhelm by land or sea, but Adelaisa strikes me as just your kind of people.

Yours,

Madame Ashlynn

-L-

I hurried down the stairs to find Adelaisa Vindicci in the parlor, prowling around. She was a woman built along Mjoll's lines: muscular and knowing her way around in a fight. Her sandy hair had streaks of white, but she didn't look aging, even if she was closer to forty-five than forty.

"Sorry to call so unexpectedly," Adelaisa declared, in a tone suggesting she wasn't, really, but that was what it was polite to say.

"Not at all. Anyone recommended to me by Madame Ashlynn is quite welcome. Svana, warm wine for our guest?"

"No, thank you," Adelaisa held up a hand. "I never drink on duty."

"Ah, of course. Water, then?"

In Skyrim, it's considered exceptionally rude to reject hospitality. However, in Cyrodiil, the rules of courtesy are different, and Adelaisa was clearly not accustomed to Skyrim's customs. Therefore, I did my best not to take offense.

"No, thank you. I was told you were looking into the Company's troubles."

"Yes. The Jarl is most displeased to discover a reduction in his income. He dispatched me to see what could be done, since the Company seemed… disinclined… to investigate itself."

"Disinclined," Adelaisa laughed grimly. "Say rather our people have forcibly prevented. Land agents disappear. Of course ships are sunk. Mine must have hit a gap in the Hoarkers' patrols."

It took effort not to smile: she sounded so disappointed. I'm willing to bet that Stig left his men work to do and made a quick getaway. That's probably why Adelaisa's ship got through unmolested: Stig wasn't where he should have been, when he should have been there.

Too bad for the Hoarkers. I'm with Mother: Adelaisa seems to be my sort of people, the kind who gets things done.

"That was fortunate."

"Indeed. I've been tasked by the Company to put a stop to this Blood Hoarker nonsense. And I'm also empowered to recruit local help, should I feel so inclined. I daresay, as the local investigator, you're probably better informed about all this than I am." It couldn't be clearer she expected me to jump to volunteer. This is a career woman, accustomed to making her wishes known and having them responded to.

"Surely you don't expect me to simply volunteer?"

Adelaisa's smile was icy sharp. "Honey, how are you going to _reach_ the Blood Hoarkers' hideout? Take a local ship? Without any cannons? I was at our offices before I came up here, and had a look around the docks. I wouldn't want to try it with any of those tubs."

I'll admit, I love how she assumes I'll be upset at being left out of this venture. Is this how I sound to other people?

"The man running the show. Do you know him?" I asked.

Adelaisa, with a grimace, shook her head.

"His name is Haldyn. Apparently a battle-mage of some repute and talent."

Adelaisa's expression could have flash-frozen half the Sea of Ghosts. "That's a name I haven't heard for a while. And it tells me where we should start looking."

"Who is he?"

"He _was_ a member of the Company. Ambitious, clever, not the sort you'd expect to enjoy being at sea. We thought he was killed when the ship he served on was hit by the Blood Hoarkers. They used to be run by a fellow named Japhet. He had a place out in the Sea of Ghosts—Japhet's Folly. Hard to approach because of the ice on the water, but clearly he had a way of getting his men to and from the island."

A brief moment of thought turned up that Vidrald's team was the one rotated back to Windhelm. This accorded well, since of all my lads, he's the one I work with best.

"I have a friend or two I'd like to bring," I declared idly.

"How fast can you pull yourself together?" Adelaisa frowned. "We're ready to go now."

"I need only enough time to pen a couple letters and ensure I and my men are properly equipped. It shouldn't take… two hours."

"Very well." I could see the grudged the delay, but the simple fact that she took it gracefully meant she was sensible: she couldn't reasonably expect to coopt me and then have me immediately put myself on her timetable. "We're down at the docks. You can't miss us."

"Big ship with cannons, I remember."

-L-

(Delivered by Courier)

Midyear 1

Hjerim, Windhelm

Dear Ysolda:

A little bird gave me a crumb that might be good to hold onto for a rainy day. I wanted to give you some time to consider it. I know how _I_ feel about it, but that's part of being a partnership, isn't it? Not rushing off to do things without consideration and consultation.

Now, I heard that Box of Wonders might be up for sale sometimes next year. Apparently, my father isn't well, and the business is suffering. My family troubles being what they are, he wouldn't give me the time of day if I were to express an interest in obtaining the business. However, he doesn't know you're associated with me, and if he was to sell, he might be more inclined to sell to you.

Indeed, my little bird told me I'm actually believed dead in Solitude, which could make things very awkward. I was a bit surprised and perplexed by this conclusion, too!

What do you think? I know you wanted to put Belethor out of business, and buy the Bannered Mare, but it takes capital to do those things, and an actual shop front in a prosperous Hold, which would cost a fraction of what it would if the owner wasn't thinking of getting out, would be a step in the right direction, don't you think?

Think about it, and get back to me. I'm eager to hear your thoughts.

Yours,

Leandra


	39. Chapter 39

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this chapter!

-L-

Adelasia's ship was what I would describe as a cutter: it was long and narrow, made to move quickly rather than maneuver rapidly. It was a pursuit vessel, in spite of its eight cannon loaded four on a side and lashed firmly to the deck. The crew, all older than the lads Stig had under his metaphorical wing in Dawnstar, seemed to be of Adelasia's generation, tough and competent. Vidrald, the two of his men he brought—Josef and a lad of about nineteen who went by Briar—and I were taken below-decks, showed a corner, and 'encouraged' not to move from it without the Captain's or Adelasia's permission.

I quickly discovered the nautical life did not appeal to me. Being sequestered below-decks, even though Adelasia stayed with us when not required elsewhere, chafed my nerves. Now, it's a well-known fact that the Nords as a people came by sea from Atmora, sometime in the mists of history. The funny thing is that _most_ Nords don't like deep water, and I'm apparently not exempt from this. It took effort to ignore the fact that just one hole in this tub—meant for speed, not comfort—would send us all into the freezing depths below. I can swim, but in waters like those of the Sea of Ghosts as one goes further north that doesn't really matter. You freeze before you drown.

The journey took all of the first day and a large chunk of the second, and led us so far north that the Sea of Ghosts became a patchwork of ice floes and liquid water. Crewmen had to stand on deck to push the floes away with large pikes so the ship could slither forward.

The plan for dealing with Haldyn was simple: Vidrald, his lads, and I would go ahead and scout the area. That done, we'd either come back and come up with a plan, or take advantage of any opportunities we came across or contrived.

The hope was to put an arrow in Haldyn before he could start throwing fireballs or worse at us.

"Madame Grey?" one of Adelasia's crewmen appeared near the corner where the lads and I sat playing dice, more for something to do than because we really felt in the mood for a game. "Adelasia wants you topside, if you will. Your lads, too." He disappeared promptly.

I saw the problem as soon as I emerged into what should have been gleaming sunlight: we seemed to be on the edge of a massive fog bank that stopped a little too neatly to be natural. Overhead, the steel-grey sky brooded, snow falling in a morose curtain. Unease coiled in my stomach: you don't see mages strong enough to affect large chunks of weather very often. Or, if you do, they don't usually do it because it scares the locals, and magicka is looked at somewhat askance in Skyrim.

Whether the snow and cloud were Haldyn's doing or not, the fog certainly was.

"Well, if we're not close, then there's some _other_ crazy mage setting up shop," Adelasia observed, arms crossed beneath her heavy cloak. "But this is the vicinity of Japhet's Folley, so it's not likely."

The fog was likely thick as Svana's creamy pumpkin soup. Poor visibility. They could have anything for damaging ships that tried to brave it hidden in there, and you'd never know until you hit it and it was too late. Fortunately, the ice floes seemed thicker and denser in their numbers than they were the last time we were on deck. It wouldn't be impossible, assuming there's an island in the fog, to walk to it simply by crossing the ice floes on foot.

The trick is doing it without slipping off the floes.

"Here." Adelasia handed me a compass. "If we didn't plan to use you as scouts before, we'd have to now. My crew are either too heavy or dressed for the deck." This was true: her soldiers' armor would sink them on any by the sturdiest floes. The rest were dressed to be comfortable on the ship, but not for man-to-man combat. "If this is the place, you'll want to keep a bearing north and west. That bank's not a mile wide. Use the compass so you don't get turned around, and you'll walk out of the fog before you get lost in it."

"Alright. Watch your footing on the floes. If you fall in, it may be the last thing you do." I've heard ugly stories about people who fell into icy water—most of them told to me as a child to discourage curiosity from which falling in accidentally might result—I'd rather not become one, myself.

One of Adelasia's men threw a rope ladder over the side of the vessel, which I climbed down first.

To my relief, the floe was not as slick as I feared, even if it was clear I'd need to watch my footing. A little care, and everything would be fine.

"Once the fog clears," Adelasia called from the deck, "we'll start hammering anything that moves. Don't let the assault catch you off-guard. We start the minute we have an opening."

"Fair enough." I reached the edge of the fog bank by the time the others disembarked. "Stay close." It was impossible not to say it, even if it was the most obvious thing in the world to keep in mind.

I could see about an arm's length ahead of me, which meant we moved slowly so as not to get separated, since we couldn't hold onto one another without risk of upsetting balances, especially during those vulnerable moments of hopping from one floe to another.

Between the compass keeping our heading and the fact that the floes grew more solid as we progressed, finding Japhet's Folley was easy. Our first look at the place was from about ten feet away. The fog suddenly stopped, revealing the ten feet of space and a sheer cliff wall I didn't want to try without equipment meant for climbing. Slightly beyond that, I could see the edge of a leaning tower.

Like Adelasia said: if this wasn't Haldyn, some other crazy mage had plans.

-L-

It took us nearly a full lap around the island—during which we had enough time to grow concerned that a frontal assault was the only option open to us—before we found what we hoepd for: a small cave that served as a kind of back door to the Blood Hoarkers' headquarters. Every well-maintained headquarters should have a back way out, in case one needs to make a quick, discreet exit.

Although well-disguised as a piece of wall, knowledge that we had a mage to deal with, coupled with footprints leading into and out of a blank expanse of cliff and sundry rubbish on the shoreline suggested someone was doing something here. As a result, it only took a few minutes of feeling at the cliff face before Vidrald nearly tripped through the illusory stone.

"What do you think?" Vidrald asked, stepping back from the illusion, which remained neatly intact.

"I think you and I should go first. Put an arrow in anyone we see," I answered simply, opening the flask on my belt. Usually, this would be pitch for fire-arrows. Today, it was simply one of Nurelion's special blends: an anticoagulant coupled with a numbing agent. The affected party thinks the wound is less severe than it is, unless he's paying attention to how fast he's bleeding.

I'll admit, Nurelion looked at me a little askance when I first asked about this mix. However, with good business relations (and my name attached to the death of the Butcher) he put aside some of his qualms.

The concealed opening in the cliff led into a large, natural cavern into which the tower above was sunk. Within the bottommost level of the tower were two sentries—responsible for the refuse and footprints that betrayed the entrance's presence—playing cards and talking loudly, as if they'd had a few tankards.

Josef and Briar, both melee fighters, hung back a little as Vidrald and I sneaked forward until we could see our marks, then killed the guards. Within the towers were evidences of the Blood Hoarkers' privations: all different kinds of goods, some still in their original crates, some of it scattered or in use. I don't doubt the East Empire's accountants and clerks will have their hands full with this mess. It makes the goods found at Pinewatch look rather meagre. Then again, I suppose this is an entirely different scale to those bandits' predations.

You know, I think the best way to handle Siddgeir is simply to slit his throat while he's asleep. Oily little weasel, he'll just find a way to cause trouble if he's not properly squashed. You can't blackmail his ilk: everyone knows he's crooked and proving it doesn't mean much. You can't bribe him for long: he'll keep upping his price until he finds out how long your reach is, then try to turn the tables on you. And, honestly, there is absolutely no good political reason for keeping him alive. He can't be ransomed to the Empire. Dengeir _might_ , and Thadgeir _might,_ try to redeem him… but Dengeir may be dead by the time it comes up, and Thadgeir… well. He might still try to redeem the lad, family ties being what they are. Poor fellow, I wonder if he might not find a life free of Siddgeir and Dengeir something of a relief, once he gets over the shock of their deaths.

As operations go, this one went remarkably well: not a single Blood Hoarker was able to scream and let his companions know trouble was slinking up the spiral staircases like a bad smell. Even Haldyn didn't see us coming, didn't realize we were there until he found two arrows in his back, by which time he was in no position to realize anything. In a way, it was a little anticlimactic. However, I agree with Stig: it's best when battles end the right way up.

I know only one or two crews were in the towers when we went through it, because they couldn't be so effective with so few men, even if the ones Stig was leading were here. I don't think they were; they seemed the type to require time to get over the confusion their captain leaving them so unexpectedly would cause.

We had just backtracked the stairwell and forced a certain locked door—revealing a corpse that, given its state of decay, was probably Japhet himself—when a dull boom rocked the tower.

"That sounded like canon fire," Briar noted uneasily.

"The fog," I said slowly. "It must have finished lifting. Let's go out the way we came in. Less chance of us getting pummeled like anyone else Adelaisa can see."

"Let's lock the front door before we go," Vidrald advised. "Make sure they can't fall back in here."

-L-

We waited in the cavern with the now-visible hidden entrance until the sounds of cannon fire stopped. Then, and only then, did we begin picking our way around the island.

Adelaisa's ship was moored in the small harbor, in which several other vessels in varying degrees of 'wrecked' were burning. On the beach were strewn the bodies of Blood Hoarkers and a few of the East Empire Company's men. Clearly, it had been a rout. I'll bet Adelaisa pounded them with the cannons, then went in with her men to make sure of anyone left.

"I've got a line on you!" a voice barked sharply. "Name yourselves!"

"It's Leandra," I called back, stopping abruptly.

The voice sounded much friendlier when it spoke next. "Come ahead."

We did so, to find Adelaisa standing beside the sentry, leaning on the gunwale. "We were starting to worry," she observed with a broad grin.

"You did warn us you were going to start hammering them as soon as you could see them," I answered wryly.

Adelaisa's smile had a quality similar to sharp ice. "Some people would take it amiss that I was being literal."

"Well, we didn't get caught in your barrage," I answered as I climbed the gangplank. "So I can't complain too loudly. Did any of them get away?"

"Not that we saw. Right lads?" she grinned wolfishly. The answer received shouts and hearty approval from her men. "The Company will have more soldiers and some of their desk-sailors out here to clean up the remaining pirates and take inventory of whatever's there."

"There's a lot. I didn't see any logbooks."

This wasn't true. In fact, I had the logbook secured about my person after discreetly removing it from Halryn's office space. I want to know where the money was going, and I'll bet it leads right to the Shatter-Shield family. With Haldryn's logbook, I can do a lot of damage.

Adelaisa snorted. "It's there, somewhere. Haldryn was an educated man. He'd know you can't run something like this without keeping track of what he's got."

"When do we set sail back to Windhelm? I have business there."

Adelaisa chuckled. "What, you don't enjoy the nautical life?"

"I prefer to leave it to those with a passion for it."

"We can leave right now, if you like." Without waiting for me to say a word, she turned on her heel and began barking orders, which were hastily obeyed. "We'll be back quicker than it took us to get here, your ladyship."

I ignored the teasing sarcasm. "Thank you. I'm glad to hear it. I take it we should sequester ourselves below-decks again?"

"I'd prefer it," Adelaisa answered with a shrug, following us down into the ship. "Now, you know how things went with us. How did they go with you?"

A woman in her position writes reports, hence part of the interest. I told her, in a few words, how it went. A slow suffusion of impressed respect infused Adelaisa's expression as she listened, occasionally looking to Vidrald, Josef, or Briar as if silently asking whether I was being modest.

"And he never saw you coming?" she asked.

"I'm _very_ good at what I do. And that, partly, because I work with the best at what _they_ do." I indicated the lads.

"So it seems. Well, you won't find the Company ungrateful. When I make my report, I'll see about wrangling you a consultant's fee. You've earned it."

-L-

"Uh-oh, someone's in a real sweet temper," Adelaisa observed cynically, as she watched the flurry of activity on the docks.

"How can you tell?" Briar asked, frowning at the workers and the cargo being moved.

"I know what well-paid, well-treated dockhands look like, son. And that's not it," she answered, motioning to the Argonian. She snorted as if to express contempt, but said nothing. Probably for the best, in such a partisan city. "It's been a pleasure, your ladyship."

She'd taken to calling me that, half teasingly, ever since I expressed a lack of enthusiasm for life at sea.

"More than that, it's been profitable. And you know what they say about profits."

"Money talks and mammoth shit walks," Adelaisa agreed. The instant we were off the ship, she began barking orders to get it underway again, bound for Solitude.

There did seem to be a certain amount of scurrying, as opposed to hustling, among the Argonian dock hands. Like they were waiting for some great hammer to fall.

In seconds, a member of Ulfric's house guard—an odd sight on the docks, of all places—hurried up, saluting hastily. "My lady? You're requested at the palace immediately. Ah… your, uh, guest arrived in your absence, and Jarl Ulfric would be grateful if you'd postpone anything else you have to do to come deal with—I mean… to pay your proper respects. My lady."

"Guest?" I asked blankly, knowing full well that no one would direct Stig Salt-Plank to the palace if he came looking for me.

"Yes, my lady. The painter."

"…" I was honestly totally at a loss for words.

"You know, that might just be a first," Vidrald snickered, clapping me gently on the shoulder. "Lovely Lady Leandra at a loss for words. Come on, lads. Looks like we're three for good-job drinks tonight." Still laughing—and well he might—Vidrald gave my shoulder a squeeze, then ushered his lads away, leaving me with the nervous house guard.

"Are you telling me that Monsieur Roche-Guyon is at the Palace of the Kings?" I asked blankly.

"Yes, my lady." The guard's face betrayed a kind of consternation I wasn't sure what to make of, so I decided the best thing to do was simply make a beeline at speed for the palace.

I know I invited him to consider the job, but showing up unannounced like this is quite rude. Normally, there would be weeks or months of back and forth negotiations before he stirred foot away from High Rock. Either business is slow or he liked the sound of 'Palace of the Kings.'

-L-

The house guard led me to one of the entertaining rooms which are almost never used in Ulfric's bachelors' hall of a palace.

I understood the guard's consternation and awkwardness the instant I walked into the room.

Ulfric, Galmar and Jorleif, joined to my pleasure by Argrenor One-Honored, all sat in big, comfortable chairs with mead in their hands. I knew Ulfric well enough to know when he was simply making the best of an unforeseen situation.

The thing that wrong-footed the guard, however, was the fact that Monsieur Roche-Guyon, that great artist whom one assumed was a Breton down to his skin, was actually an Orc. As massive and muscular as any of his race—and bigger than some I've seen—he was dressed in what was probably the latest fashion in High Rock, a fantastical costume of purple and white silk, edged and embroidered with gold, with a large floppy plumed hat sitting on the back of the sofa.

Beside him, her hand resting lightly in his massive one, was an Altmer woman dressed in a rich green silk gown with a bell-shape, a low neckline, lots of delicate lace and masterful embroidery. The way she sat tucked so close to him left no doubt that they were intimately acquainted—a supposition borne out by the two Altmer children who looked not yet in their teens, sitting on the hearth rug.

The girl, dressed in red, had a book, but didn't seem to be giving it much attention in favor of studying the Nords with great interest.

The boy, dressed in blue, had a roll of paper and a piece of charcoal, and seemed to be doing life sketches.

"Ah, and here's Leandra," Ulfric noted, with a sardonic note that almost made me laugh. "The lady with whom you were in contact."

"Ah, Madame!" Voice rough and raspy, it could easily sound uncouth. However, his Common was quite polished, with only a slight foreign accent, that back-of-the-throat gargle common to Breton speech. If you closed your eyes, you wouldn't know he was an Orc. "I am utterly devastated!" He got to his feet—very lightly for such a big man—and swept over to me, bowing low and offering me his hand. This close, I could smell a kind of fragrance hanging about him, a faint scent, decidedly masculine, and not unpleasant. "It has all the appearance that I am here unannounced!"

When I, somewhat awkwardly, offered him my hand, he kissed the back of it.

"I arrived here and, what do I find? My message, it never arrived! Your lord, he did not know I was to come! And I take it, you did not know either! You have my deepest apologies, Madame!"

"Apparently, his message fell into bandit hands," Ulfric declared mildly.

"Bandits are becoming something of a problem. I hope they didn't inconvenience you?" I asked.

"Oh, no!" the little girl chirruped, her voice sweet and her eyes sparkling with mischief. " _Maman_ , she let them have it! Lovely sparkling clouds, right in the middle of their little ambuscade! They made such lovely statues!"

"Anne," the Altmer woman remarked blandly.

The girl blushed rosily, got to her feet, and curtsies politely. "Apologies, Madame, for interrupting." With this, she bustled over to sit with her mother, who kissed her head and murmured _'tres charmont, ma belle cher_.'

Roche-Guyon—and it struck me only now that I have _never_ heard his given name used… and now I think I know why—regarded his daughter fondly. "Ah, but she has the gift of a storyteller," he declared fondly. "Much better than her poor prosaic papa!"

At this, Anne beamed like the sun itself.

"Permit me to introduce my wife, Marguerite," Roche-Guyon held out a hand.

Marguerite, smiling benevolently, got to her feet, walked over to him, let him have her hand and allowed herself to be displayed for admiration. A delicate white lily made of pearls and silver hung around her neck, the pendant resting just above her neckline. "A pleasure, Madame." She held out a hand, which I took, and which seemed enough of a formality. A faint trace of scent hung about her too, floral and quite pleasant.

I might have to make inquiries. I'm not _fond_ of perfume, but it's nice to have from time to time, and it's a limited art here in Skyrim.

"And you, Madame. Thank you for coming."

"My daughter, Anne," Roche-Guyon

Anne hopped up again, hurried over and smiled. "A pleasure, Madame." Her sweet smile held a certain impishness. She's the sort of girl, I can tell, who, in any other Hold, would have the whole of the Jarl's household and half the city's population oohing and cooing over her. By rights, little shiny things should hover in the air around her when she turns on the charm like that.

"You're just enchanting. I hoped for a sunny day in this dreary city and poof! The gods send your sunny disposition."

The smile widened, losing some of its calculated charm to become a very real thing.

"And the studious lad there, that is my son, Henri," Roche-Guyon indicated the boy on the hearthrug.

Henri, looking pained at all this attention, put down his paper and charcoal, got up and bowed politely, mumbling something in which the word "Madame" was just audible.

"I take it you're going to be an artist like your father?" I asked gently.

Henri, still not looking me in the face—shy, more than mutinous—nodded twice.

"Already, he helps me mix my paints," Roche-Guyon declared, motioning his son to join him. "Come here, _mon fils_."

Henri did, standing so he was almost screened from view by his father's bulk.

"You've a lovely family, _Monsieur_ , and I'm ever so grateful you were willing to come see the space."

Roche-Guyon grimaced, wincing as if pained. "Yes, and such a space as it is! No wonder it troubles your gracious eyes! But do not worry. Once I have finished with it, you need never again be troubled by it. On the word of Roche-Guyon!" As he spoke, he gestured flamboyantly, as if his hands were as much a part of his speech as his voice was.

"But I think," Marguerite interrupted delicately, "That Madame has just returned from travelling? We should not prevent her washing away her journey."

Roche-Guyon looked me up and down, his broad, hard features opening in surprise. "Oh, la! It is so! How unkind of me, Madame, to keep you here with such easily-postponed pleasantries!"

"Not at all, Monsieur, Madame," I answered smoothly. "I would be devastated to learn I was not prompt in offering you my most sincere welcome to Windhelm."

"And, on that note," Ulfric got to his feet. "I beg you'll excuse Lady Grey and myself."

"Of course, my lord," Roche-Guyon bowed deeply, the rest of his family offering the courtesies High Rock society considered 'proper' for departing leadership.

Ulfric left the room, and I followed obediently. We were silent until we reached his study. Once the door closed behind us, Ulfric heaved a heavy sigh and rubbed his face wearily. "Is he everything you were hoping for?" he asked, a touch acidly.

"If you're asking whether I expected an Orc, no. Although, now I think about it, it explains _why_ his figures are so muscular. For an Orc, they'd be positively svelte and ethereal." And an Altmer wife. And children by her. Oh, this is going to set Windhelm _all_ aflutter!

"I've lodged them at the palace, so you needn't concern yourself with making arrangements," Ulfric said gruffly.

That's good. No one with any sense is going to take issue or make issue with non-Nord foreigners if the Jarl is housing them. "Thank you, my lord. You mentioned bandits?"

"Apparently this 'Geeyon' fellow sent a messenger hawk to you about his willingness to come paint the hall. Bandits intercepted it, and tried to intercept him and his family when they came through. From what I was told, Marguerite didn't appreciate unwashed riffraff threatening her family. Turned them all into icicles and left them standing there."

Human bodies—well, anybody, Man or Mer—weren't meant to be frozen. It's a neat way to kill someone in front of your children without traumatizing them, if you're strong enough to freeze them all the way through in one go.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here to welcome them, my lord."

Ulfric glanced over at me, then heaved another sigh, rolling his shoulders. "I hope your business concluded satisfactorily?"

"Oh yes. Quite. The East Empire Company will rapidly return to a valuable contributor to Windhelm's financial stability. And I'll be having a word with Clan Shatter-Shield in a couple days."

"Any advice on dealing with your Geeyon—am I saying that right?" he demanded fussily.

"It's ' _Guyon_ '," I answered, playing the accent properly.

"Geeyohn… Guiyon…" Ulfric looked hopefully at me.

"Guyon. You try to swallow the 'n.'"

"Guyon," Ulfric finally managed.

"Close enough. He seems an affable sort, I don't think he'll fuss over a little mispronunciation. As for advice, he's a man like any other. He puts his clothes on the same way you do."

Ulfric snorted at this… and I'll admit, I couldn't help laughing a little myself. 'Flamboyant' didn't just describe Roche-Guyon's gestures while speaking, after all. "He gives me a headache. I _expect_ a Breton and then… there's this _Orc_. It's… disconcerting."

"I'll admit, I find it so, myself. I suppose he feels nationality transcends race. How long has he been here?"

"Arrived late yesterday. Fortunately, I know how to entertain guests, and Jorleif can manage when duty calls."

"I entertained no doubts of your capability, my lord."

"While they're here, I expect you to begin taking your meals at the palace. They're really your guests."

I bowed my head. "Of course, my lord. Shall I also attend the artist's fees?"

"Jorleif has already taken care of it. I think he was actually rather glad to be the impression-maker," Ulfric grinned.

"He's your steward. It's his job to ensure guests and the house are well cared for." Honestly, I think he was just that excited about the possibility of _finally_ getting that stupid hall redone.

"Just so. But I've nothing else with which to detain you."

I bowed my head. "I'll make my excuses to my guests and head home. But will certainly return for lunch and again for dinner."

Ulfric frowned, then his expression softened. "They're… a nice little family. Don't you think?"

I sensed there was more to the question than him simply thinking they were, some deeper nuance which was lost to me. "Quite. I imagine little Anne is going to charm your whole household within the week."

He snorted. "She's welcome to try."

It would make my job easier, in some respects, certainly.


	40. Chapter 40

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this chapter!

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk.)

Midyear 4

Madame,

Writing to tell you that your instincts were, once again, good. Dengeir of Falkreath is dead. He snapped this evening in the Dead Man's Drink. He fought with the strength of one truly berserk, but the lads and I were able to stop him before he killed anyone. It was definitely on his mind. Please convey this information to Jarl Ulfric at first opportunity.

Yours,

Geirlund

-L-

"Dead?" Ulfric demanded, looking shaken. He and Galmar were in the strategy room, while Roche-Guyon and Henri puttered about the audience hall with Jorleif hovering attentively. Today, most of the flamboyant High Rock fashion was hidden under long tunic-like smocks. The paint smudged on them proved how 'into his art' Roche-Guyon could throw himself… and children near eleven are rarely neat.

"I'm afraid so, my Jarl. Geirlund and his lads were present when Dengeir snapped. I'd been getting concerning letters and asked them to keep a close eye on the Dead Man's Drink, especially. I have friends there."

Shock currently held off any suspicions he might entertain about my involvement. Ulfric thumbed through the series of letters, expression growing grimmer and grimmer.

"Where were you last, Leandra?" he asked softly, not looking at me.

"I was at Japhet's Folley with Vidrald, two of his lads, and more than a dozen members of the East Empire company's fixer crew," I answered unperturbed, as if I didn't get _why_ he wanted to know where I was. "You'll remember there was some difficulty faced by the East Empire Company about some particularly well-organized bandits."

"Yes, you believed the Shatter-Shield family involved."

"I did. The matter has been resolved… although if my lord would consider lifting the ban on Argonians entering the city, I would take it as a kindness."

Ulfric grimaced in a way suggesting Argrenor's presence—with the arrival of Roche-Guyon and his non-standard family—had been very in-demand. So much so that this topic had probably come up. His grimace deepened as he considered the letters—Narri's plea for help included among them, incriminating as it might be—bearing the writers' concerns about Dengeir and the possibility of some innocent bystander being harmed before anyone could or would do something about the man and his instability.

Ulfric heaved a sigh, shoving the papers to me. "Alright. Whom did you have in mind?"

"Valga Vinicia. She runs the local inn. With Nenya as her steward, I think Falkreath might not end up annexed piecemeal by the closest Holds. That," I raised my voice slightly when Galmar and Ulfric both looked as if they suspected me of being overdramatic, "is the situation there. I don't care what you've heard: my information comes from the people who _know_. Falkreath, under Siddgeir's mismanagement, is almost bankrupt. He taxes without thought to what he's doing to local business, which is slowly drying up unless he gets a cut of the profits. Falkreath is a minor hold. Let it fall to someone who cares about Falkreath. It would be politic for a High King aspirant to remember that a Hold must be secure before it can look away from its own troubles to consider those of others."

A glaring match between Ulfric and I ensued, leaving me to suspect he really did believe I contrived Dengeir's death, but without something concrete to lay before me was too smart to alienate an ally over suspicions. Besides, my alibi was ironclad, and unless he took time to talk to Narri—whom I don't believe would talk without powerful motivators—no one knew anything about anything that could incriminate me.

"Leave the room," Ulfric finally said darkly.

I inclined my head, gathered my papers, and respectfully withdrew.

-L-

When I dispatched Svana (and told myself that here was another reason to employ a proper confidential secretary) to arrange a meeting with Torbjorn Shatter-Shield, I didn't expect to see him that same day. However, when Svana returned, she said he would await my convenience.

What she actually said was 'the poor man says he'll await your convenience, my lady.'

Now, Svana is a good girl, and a kind one. She's rarely patronizing, so when she referred to him as 'the poor man,' her sympathy was real and profound.

The Shatter-Shield family has certainly seen its share of troubles this past year, having lost both daughters to murderers. In some ways, I can look at their situation and see that of my own poor family.

When I arrived just before dusk, I was met by the man himself rather than a servant.

Torbjorn had the look of a hale man who has recently lost both weight and muscle. His face bore the etchings of grief upon grief, and a certain tendency to stare vaguely into nothing when nothing demanded his immediate attention suggested he might not even care about why I was here.

I came preparing for war with a strong man. I didn't expect to find a ghost reminding me of the father I loved. I nipped the thought mercilessly; it won't help me or anyone else.

"I hope you'll excuse my poor welcome, Thane Grey. I'm still coming to terms with the deaths of my wife and daughters… they were the ones who usually handled hospitality for honored guests," he offered, once we were both furnished with wine, an exceptional vintage, the kind one usually only pulls out for exceptionally esteemed company or very good friends. He regarded the liquid briefly with that bleak look. "What can I do for you?"

"You know, I came here prepared to fight a giant. I begin to think it might not be necessary."

Torbjorn gave a bitter little laugh. "When you've seen as much loss as I have, my lady, it has an effect."

I know his wife wasn't killed by the Butcher. Therefore, I assumed she took her own life, the grief of loss being more than she could bear. It makes me wonder how many secondary victims like Torva the Butcher claimed in his mad quest.

"Yes. I know." Without another word, I put the Blood Hoarkers' logbook on the table. The one I'd stolen from Suvaris had been replaced in the Shatter-Shields' dockside office hours ago.

Torbjorn flicked it open, arching his eyebrows. He looked at me, then flipped it closed. "Blackmail, is it?"

"I thought about it. The Jarl is jealous of his tithes and taxes. But I think, perhaps, it isn't necessary." Sometimes you get more benefit from using sugar than brine. And his is the expression of a man with nothing more to lose. His losses stalk him, sleeping and waking. Men can't do worse than that without resorting to extremes.

"What do you want?"

"Surprisingly, I want to help you." And it did come as a bit of a surprise.

"And why would you want to do that? The Jarl being so jealous of his profits, as you've said?"

"Because my sister was murdered by the Thalmor. And when I killed them, and the one who gave her to them, my parents lost me as well. My father said unforgivable things before I left, and it drove a wedge between him and my mother. Let me assure you, a family fragmented and wedged apart by grief is every bit as painful as a family who dies around you."

I found myself pursing my lips against the pain of memory, the aching loss I could usually ignore. But I know my eyes grew brighter, and my cheeks rosier, as I held back the tears that wanted to trickle from my eyes.

Torbjorn refilled my glass, but seemed utterly unmoved. "What do you want, Thane Grey?"

"I want decent conditions and wages for the Argonians in your employ. There's a skooma dealer supplying one of them. I want that stopped."

I think I genuinely surprised him. Torbjorn frowned, as if waiting for the other boot to drop. "Why do those boots concern you?"

Boots? I grimaced at the pejorative, but kept the sneer out of my tone. "It's enough that they do. And it's enough that without them, true sons and daughters of Skyrim could not be spared for my Jarl's war effort. Without an army, how does one wage a war? Besides. It won't take long for the East Empire Company to reestablish their affairs, and a word from me about the wisdom of recruiting local workers… I wonder, would any of your employees stay?"

Torbjorn, still with that imperturbability of the fatalist, shrugged. "As you wish. On the word of a Shatter-Shield, they will be paid fairly. Shall I send you an accounting?"

"No. I trust in that word. Yours is an honored name, and should be afforded every courtesy to which it is entitled. And the skooma dealer?"

"I'll see that it's taken care of." It was impossible to tell if he knew about this poison peddler or not. I suppose this isn't surprising: why, the logic goes, should he stop anyone from destroying themselves?

"Thank you for your time, Master Shatter-Shield. If there's anything else, I'll arrange to meet with you."

I made to rise, but Torbjorn's next question stopped me. "You were the one who killed the Butcher, weren't you?"

"With help."

"I should have thanked you before now," he declared gruffly. "It's why you find me so amenable to your wishes. I owe you a debt, Thane Grey." Otherwise, he'd have told me bluntly 'take your evidence to the Jarl, and see if I care.' I get it.

I let my weight settle again as I studied Torbjorn's craggy features. "I didn't know any of the Butcher's victims. I wonder… would you share your wife and daughters with me?"

This poor fellow. He doesn't need to know that the Butcher wasn't responsible for all. And if that Dunmer I suspect of Nilsine's murder does belong to one of the orders of assassins, I doubt anyone will ever find her. Let the poor man have the peace of mind that comes with thinking one man responsible for his sorrows, and believe that one man has paid the price or can't do it any more, whatever helps him through his grief and lets him sleep at night.

Torbjorn looked surprised, as if he'd never been asked such a thing in his life. But consider, most of the people who could come near his grief already knew his wife and daughters. They didn't need to be told what had been lost. Slowly, haltingly, and with much of it addressed to his goblet of wine, which he stopped drinking altogether, Torbjorn began to speak. About Frigga's sweetness and Nilsine's cleverness, about his beautiful wife of so many years who, in his mind's eye, was as fresh and young as she was the day he married her. As he spoke and reminisced, tears welled up in his eyes, then slowly began to fall, his voice breaking as the grief came pouring out.

And I knew, instinctively, that if I haunted the Halls of the Dead to remember a sister I failed, he avoided them like the plague for the same reason: he failed those he loved, and couldn't bear seeing the failure laid out silently in the dim corridors with their fading flowers and dying snowberries.

"Never," Torbjorn rasped long after the wine was gone and the hour grew late, "Never, my lady, take anything about your loved ones for granted. I sit here, remembering all I loved about them… and all the while I regret every moment I put my business first."

I knew this meant 'patch things up with your living while you have time,' and I knew he meant it kindly. "I hope, despite the original nature of my visit this evening, you will consider me a friend, Master Shatter-Shield."

He regarded me as I rose with weary eyes and the exhaustion only grief aired can confer, but said nothing.

"Good evening."

-L-

(Delivered by courier to the Palace of the Kings, care of Ulfric Stormcloak.)

Midyear 6,

Breezehome, Whiterun

To Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm,

Alduin is dead. You can get back to your war whenever you and Tullius are ready for round two. Your understanding and restraint in this trying time have been appreciated.

Cordially,

Bellona Dovahkiin

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk.)

Midyear 7

Whiterun,

Dear Leandra,

Well, darling, I've thought it over, and all I can say to your little bird is… an actual shop at a fraction of cost? Buy low, sell higher. Where do I sign? (That is, after I wondered at the fact anyone would want to believe you're dead, of course.)

Ah, but there. I sound suspiciously like Belethor. That would be because I had to deal with the man-skeever today. It's not kind to his customer, since they'll have to pay that plus his markup, but I overcharged him for the thing he wanted—nothing questionable or illicit, just hard to get.

I hope your little bird is onto something. Solitude is a bit far from Whiterun, but one must go where the profits are, as you illustrated yourself. I loved the idea from the get-go, but did take time to think about it, as you can see by the date on this letter. I still love it. Just think: with you in Windhelm and me in Solitude, not only will we both be working out of major Holds, but we'll have the option to send back and forth by sea. I also like the idea of hearing any business-affecting gossip that might come out of a partisan capital without its having to travel to Whiterun first.

I'd be sad to leave Whiterun, goodness knows, but if that's what it takes, then that's what it takes.

Yours, Ysolda

-L-

I couldn't simply steal Suvaris away from Torbjorn Shatter-Shield. It would feel too underhanded, like a kick when the man was down. The scruple on this point gave me a sense of feeling somewhat better about myself than I normally do.

However, more than a week after my meeting with the man, I was no closer to figuring out how to secure her than I was when I realized I couldn't simply hire her away.

Tobjorn, in spite of my assurance that his word was good enough, did send me an accounting of the Argonians and their newly-increased wages.

I had Svana send the poor man one of the delicious cakes she's been 'experimenting' with. Something to tempt his appetite, which I don't doubt is not as good as one might wish. I daresay his cook and housekeeper look after him as best they can, but how effective than they be if he won't hold up his head and try?

Although the Dragonborn contacted the parties involved with the temporary peace, now that it had had time to settle, there seemed a certain hesitancy to be the one to break it. The Legion continued in a holding pattern, as did the Stomcloaks. The tension this waiting caused was enough to give a person headaches and ulcers.

Give them a reason and they'll start fighting again. But until there's a clear provocation… everyone waited. No one wanted to be remembered as the side that broke truce, even if the truce's purpose had been fulfilled.

During this time, I had something else to think about. Whatever he might feel about the adults, it was obvious that Ulfric was disposed to be fond of children. Or, at least, the two now running around his palace. I even saw him explaining his strategy map to the usually so-silent Henri, and heard Henri chattering back quite comfortably.

I should hasten to point out that Henri was interested in the _map_ , not the _war_. Apparently, as well as life-drawings, he had an interest in cartography, and it was about the places on the map he wanted to know. In response, Ulfric pulled out the kind of stories parents use to entertain their children more than to educate them, the kind of story that's three quarters fable and one quarter history. 

True to my predictions, little Anne (who cheekily called Galmar ' _Monsieur l'Ours_ ', Mr. Bear, to which he didn't complain but accepted with a gruff kind of resignation) was rapidly wrapping the palace staff around her little fingers with her sunny smile and 'look at me, I'm a well-mannered big girl!' attitude. She was sweet, a trait both her parents seemed happy to cultivate. To quote Marguerite: 'there's not enough sweetness in this world.'

I discovered, over the course of meals and daytime visits, that Marguerite was originally from the Summerset Isles… some four hundred years ago. Apparently, her family didn't approve of her first husband (a Breton, which was why she wore a Breton name now), so she left. She doubted very much that her parents would approve of any of her three previous husbands, and had no illusions they would utterly reject number four, and all the children she'd had by three of those four husbands.

And she didn't care one mote of dust about it.

Roche-Guyon didn't talk much about himself. He much preferred talking about his plans for the audience hall, which he enumerated at length to Ulfric and me.

They were, as Ulfric said, a nice little family. And I began to wonder in earnest why Ulfric, Jarl that he is, didn't have a wife and at least one child. A little tactful questioning of Jorleif revealed that Ulfric hadn't even kept a mistress since he became Jarl.

I found this odd, since part of one's job as Jarl is to ensure there's someone in the family to pass the throne to once you die. Maybe Ulfric is just too picky about his women? Or perhaps he entertains a certain disinterest towards them. It wasn't a conversation I expected to go well, being so personal.

However, Ulfric's coldness towards me about Dengeir's death did evaporate over time.

Or maybe it was simply that I laid out my plans for Whiterun, and assured him they were all in order, from the men I needed on the inside to the fashion I proposed to incapacitate the children. The only thing I withheld was where the children were to be kept, and Ulfric didn't care to ask.

"It's elaborate," he sighed heavily, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. "A lot can go wrong."

"If I wasn't there to superintend it, myself, I would agree with you. However, by the time you get to the city with your siege equipment and whatnot, I'll already be inside, waiting for the opportune moment."

Ulfric blinked, then shook his head as if he ought to have expected as much. "And Falkreath?"

"I plan to slit Siddgeir's throat, and that of any Imperial representative who might be present. Then the Stormcloaks can march into the city from Pinewatch. Incidentally, I'd like to keep Irileth, Balgruuf's housecarl, there. She might be useful in future."

She'll be close to the children if anything unforeseen happens.

"I'll consider it. You think it's just that simple? Slit a few throats and walk the army in?"

I snorted. "Siddgeir's management style is killing Falkreath. The city watch knows it. I think they'll be glad for a change of authority, since Falkreath is only Imperial-supporting because of Siddgeir. They'd rather manage their own affairs and I think we should let them. The Hold doesn't provide much as far as you're concerned except a place to stop between Whiterun and Markarth."

"How's that going?"

"It's much less elaborate than Whiterun. In short, and if the situation doesn't change, a small team sneaks into the city through Cidhna Mine to open the gates. I have an agitator in place already who's been doing excellent work, and I believe he has several agitators himself. As soon as the Legion or the Thalmor or even the local authorities close up Markarth, it will be like putting a lid on a pot: the water boils faster."

Ulfric nodded. "I take it you'll be heading that team yourself?"

"I wouldn't trust anyone else to do it. No offense to you and Galmar, but a plan like this should be handled by the one responsible for it. That way, if it fails, there's only one person to blame."

"Fair enough."

After a long pause that avoided the topic of what I plan to do with a city that hosts a substantial Thalmor presence, "I wonder if I might ask my lord a personal question?"

Ulfric's expression braced for something unpleasant. "Such as?"

"You've no family. I find it curious."

A very long, uncomfortable contemplative silence followed. Finally, Ulfric sighed heavily. "There are many hidden costs of war," he said very slowly. "Such that there is no point ever discussing this matter with me again." He didn't sound angry, but he definitely meant it.

"So I should abandon any pretenses of playing political matchmaker?"

"You may consider it if you must. But bear in mind what I told you."

So he… can't… have a family of his own. Not 'won't' or 'is disinclined.' "I see. Excuse me, my lord, for treading on such a delicate subject."

Ulfric gave a noncommittal twitch of his head, and I changed the subject to something harmless.

-L-

(Excerpt from the Journal of Ulfric Stormcloak)

Midyear 14

Spoke with Leandra today. The subject wasn't exactly pleasant, but returned me to a consideration I've entertained off and on for the past few months. Although hardly a member of the cause as such, it cannot be denied that she holds Windhelm's interests in high regard. I'm sure she has a hundred practical reasons for anything she does, but the fact remains that she's willing to tackle problems no one else will.

If all goes well at Whiterun—assuming Balgruuf doesn't see sense—through her connivances, I'll give the idea of adopting her some more serious thought. She raised a good point when asking about my lack of family: one way or another, I will be the last of my line to preside over Windhelm.

However, I don't see her failing to produce an heir who could inherit Windhelm someday if that necessity was placed before her. And at the very least, I would never need to worry about the Hold's solvency.

I know her young man, too—he, at least, is dedicated to the cause. He's also the type who would prefer having a family to not.

If I'm honest, I feel a sense of peace at the idea of leaving the Hold in Leandra's care that I don't find in the idea of leaving it to Galmar or even Jorleif. I suppose we'll see how things go.


	41. Chapter 41

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for looking over this chapter!

Special thanks also go to guest-reviewer InditheWanderer for catching a _horrific_ confusion of characters on my part. I had Angrenor Once-Honored somehow confused with Brunwulf Free-Winter. I've gone back and, as far as I can tell, everyone's name is what and where it needs to be. I apologize to you, all my readers, for this horrible oversight on my part

~Raven.

-L-

It never rains, but it pours. It's a clichéd phrase, but definitely got to be so for a reason.

I'd begun to look at my piles of personal correspondences with some dread, and even asked Aerin to extend his duties—which are, admittedly, rather light—to help me by sorting them. He wasn't much help in doing anything with the information, but he did sort the letters into three piles: from people whose names he recognized, people whose names he didn't recognize, and anything that caught his attention as anomalous.

I needed a proper secretary.

I was just reading an account out of Riften that someone in Dawnstar was hoping to open a shop and wanted to feature Black-Briar Meadery's products—and that the Thieves' Guild was growing stronger—when Svana knocked and entered.

"My lady? A Captain Stig Salt-Plank to see you."

Stig, looking well-dressed and quite sober, seemed a bit uncomfortable as he waited in the parlor where Svana left him. He looked more respectable than he had the last time I saw him. His round cap in his hands showed signs of having been held in clenched hands and wrung with nervousness.

"Captain. It's a pleasure to see you again."

"Didn't know you were someone's thane," Stig said simply.

I shrugged. "Does it matter, outside of Windhelm?" In reality, it depends on where you are, who you are, and whose Thane you are.

"Suppose not. Still, you don't see them doing their own work often."

"Won't you sit?"

His air of discomfort increased, but he dropped to perch on the very edge of the seat I indicated. He gave the impression either he would contaminate the seat or the seat might contaminate him.

I suppose he's not used to being received politely by the upper class.

"Gave your offer some thought. About a proper job, since retirement's not for me," he declared with all the aplomb of an exploding spell.

Blunt and to the point. It's refreshing. "Excellent. I suppose you went down to the docks?"

Stig snorted, then sniffled and mumbled, "'Scuse me." He sniffed again and rubbed his nose. "Yeah, I did as a matter of fact. Bit bleak, ain't it? Draws on the grey withers."

I didn't know what 'the grey withers' were, but I didn't ask. "I'll speak to Torbjorn Shatter-Shield as soon as he's free. In fact, I'll make arrangements now, if you don't object?"

The efficiency surprised Stig, but only a little. And he didn't say a word about the fact that he was to remain in the employ of Shatter-Shield Shipping.

I, however, resisted the urge to beam at my own good luck. With an effective manager in place—and I had the feeling that what Stig didn't know, he would quickly pick up—my path to recruiting a decent secretary without offending anyone locally was clear.

I made a mental note to add a little more to the tithe I already paid to local temple. I don't see why Zenithar would go out of his way to bless my endeavors, but it felt like someone had.

-L-

"I'm still not entirely convinced," Suvaris frowned, shifting in her chair.

After a long day of pulling strings and making wishes known, I'd convinced her to join me for dinner.

Torbjorn had taken my request to install Stig in his dockside workings, and my request to hire Suvaris away from him, as he took my revelation that I could have easily blackmailed his compliance: he bent graciously, but in the fashion of one who really couldn't care less. He did seem a little touched by the fact that I'd been hesitant to 'steal' one of his employees who filled such a critical position.

At the very least, Stig could talk to the dockhands, because he'd noted certain shortcomings that ought to be addressed.

"It's simple: I need someone I can trust to help with my correspondences. The Dunmer citizenry need a mouth a little closer to Ulfric's ear than Brunwulf Free-Winter, worthy man that he is. Besides, I like you."

Suvaris chuckled. Shrewd woman that she is, however, she didn't let my friendly sentiment distract her. "I like you too, Leandra… though I think I like you less for inviting me to such a spread as Svana laid out."

Suvaris is very weight-conscious, and while she isn't exactly slender, she's well-figured for her apparent age.

"I did ask her to hold back on the desserts," I offered, refilling her wineglass.

"I'm not sure whether to thank you. She's really quite gifted in the kitchen. I suppose she could a make a feast of boiled greens." This she directed at Svana, who entered at that moment to whisk away the dishes. The girl flushed prettily, and made it a point not to look at anyone… but she couldn't quite keep the smug, self-satisfied grin off her face.

"Don't talk so loud! The palace staff might hear and try to steal her away!" I chided, flapping my hands as if to shush her. "Then what would I do?"

"You'd make do," came the prosaic answer, not devoid of humor. "I've been with Shatter-Shield Shipping for so long."

But not happy, I'm sure. I know that Suvaris and her husband (absent because of work, not lack of invitation) are strong leaders in the Dunmer community, and that the seething resentment of having been Windhelm citizens longer than most of the Nords living there have been alive is a constant thing. Two hundred years of citizenship, and the citizenry of today treats them with second-class contempt as if they were fresh and ragged refugees yet. For this reason, Suvaris will always think of 'her people' first, and it's likely the Dunmer population will take more than a little mollifying before they allow themselves to move on.

When you live for several centuries, a short grudge can amount to a respectable number of years.

"Hard feelings don't go away overnight, Suvaris. And how can change be affected if those trying to affect it have only a vague idea, an outsider's perspective, of what needs to happen?"

Suvaris leaned back, her brows knitting together. "Have you considered there's no point trying to convince those hairy brutes to change? I daresay it doesn't take an archmage to look at the attitudes in Windhelm and think 'hmm, maybe that's not the way for well-bred people to act.'"

"It doesn't take an archmage, but it does take getting out of the palace a little more often than Ulfric does. No. I choose to attempt this because I haven't tried in earnest yet. Should I find for myself that there's no point, I shall gladly admit it to you first."

Suvaris shook her head slowly, as if amused at a child's pugnacious tenacity.

"Has Rolff been around?" I asked, once the silence settled.

"Interestingly enough, no," Suvaris admitted, rolling her shoulders beneath her heavy green gown. "In fact, I had it from a friend that he _meant_ to enter the Grey Quarter, but was stopped when a guardsman demanded to know his business there. When he couldn't supply a reasonable reason for his presence, the guardsman told him to turn around and be off, no matter how Rolff blustered and fumed. In fact, the rumor is the guard was one step away from raising a goose-egg on his head and dragging him off to cool his heels somewhere quiet."

I'd heard through channels that Rolff had been 'unofficially' forbidden to enter the Snow Quarter without an express purpose. It wasn't clear where this unofficial restriction came from, but I suspected one of three scenarios: least likely, Galmar put his foot down with the guard and made it known that Rolff had no business there and was to be turned away (for Rolff's own sake); more likely, the Captain of the Guard, to prevent altercations and fuss later, made it clear to his men that Rolff was not to be allowed to go there and make the kind of trouble he was known for making; but part of me thought, since this happened after Ulfric's little stroll through the Snow Quarter, that the order came indirectly from him, to be translated into its current standing form by the Captain of the Guard doing as he saw fit.

Suvaris seemed to be mulling this over much as I was.

"I can offer you as good of terms as you had with Torbjorn… plus an additional ten percent."

"Really?" Suvaris arched her eyebrows.

"Business has been good."

"Then you can afford twenty percent."

"Fifteen. And you don't have to go down to those cold, grey docks. They're depressing." And that is something I don't think I can fix: docks are docks, after all. You can't just hang colored streamers to brighten the atmosphere.

"Fair enough. Working with those Argonians is exhausting."

A cynical smile touched my mouth. Even the second-class citizen looks for a third-class to look down on. So what she demonstrated was that people are people, and are _very_ much the same all over.

"Oh?"

"Yes. They don't work hard enough as it is, and then Master Torbjorn goes and alters their pay."

"He cut it again?" I gasped, as if I didn't know better.

Suvaris gave a grim laugh. "No. He hiked it, like it didn't even matter. Not that anything he's involved with seems to matter to him." The humor seeped out of her. "I swear, someone could raze the docks and he would just go on placidly."

"He's suffered a great deal of loss. Perhaps it's just that he's yet to come out of the shock of it."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps he'd just ready to quit. I suppose I can't blame him," she added, as if realizing how hard and cold the words might make her sound. The truth is, I don't think she can imagine the breadth of loss that would make a strong man 'just quit.'

Or maybe she knows all too well, having overcome it herself. She doesn't look much older than I am, but she's an Elf: she could be thirty, or she could be three hundred, and I'd never know without asking. She might well remember being a refugee when the Red Mountain went berserk and forced so much of the Morrowindan population to relocate.

"I'll think about it, Leandra."

"I hope to hear from you quickly. Before my correspondence tries to eat me in my sleep."

Suvaris' grin appeared like a razor flicked from its handle, and had a similar sharpness. "I thought you had a young man for that."

"Fantastic way to change the subject," I answered, aware of how prim and stuffy I sounded. Prudish, even.

Suvaris laughed comfortably, settling into her well-cushioned chair. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. Wine goes straight to my head, you know."

And it ensured I abandoned the topic of employing her as my confidential secretary.

I'll admit, many people don't seem to realize that a confidential secretary is a very honorable position, and not that of a menial at all. One must repose a certain amount of trust in another, to let that other have access to one's mail. Trust that nothing will be 'lost' or altered or 'delayed' that shouldn't be.

But I think Suvaris is like Valga: she's interested in something specific and local, not in big pictures and Province-wide concerns.

And I wasn't lying or exaggerating: as my confidential secretary, her words have a better chance of getting to the Jarl if they need to, and I have a better chance of making improvement if I know how the people I'm trying to petition for rank their needs. Those removed from a situation don't always make the best judges for how to manage it.

-L-

Suvaris did take my offer of employment within five days of Stig's hire. She wasn't _displaced_ by him, but apparently discovered that with a little coaching from her, he could handle the docks better than she did, and could handle the books reasonably well.

And Hjerim was a lot comfier and cozier than the dockside office.

And, as she said, she didn't have to run roughshod over workers who might or might not be troublesome. As I heard it, Stig certainly shouted a lot, but he usually jumped in with both feet or set to with both hands, establishing a kind of order and inducing a kind of industry that Shatter-Shield Shipping hadn't seen in recent years.

Suvaris quickly tamed my pile of correspondences by arranging nine boxes hanging on pegs on a stretch of wall in my room. Each had a Hold labeled on it, and correspondences from that Hold—no matter whether it came through Whiterun first—went into the appropriate box, with the date of reception and the name of the sender written on the outside. She marked field reports with a scrap of blue ribbon, and gossip pages with green. Major-Hold circulars had their own box on my bedside table.

She was also able to take over some of the mundane business-running work, and seemed thoroughly pleased to have something she could throw herself into. She was an organizer, Suvaris, and one of the first rate. She also insisted that if I wanted to run a business and a household, or especially a business out of a household, I needed to think about adding a couple rooms to Hjerim: a proper office at the very least. Apparently my _trousseau_ trunk had a habit of ambushing her knee when she didn't keep a close eye on it.

She was not, however, inclined to be talkative about what her people wanted or needed, and I didn't press beyond the gentle reminders that I was looking to repair Windhelm's foundations, and whatever she could do to direct me would be appreciated.

Suvaris is, as I've mentioned, shrewd. She won't warm to that topic until she's comfortable with me and with what she's doing. I can't say I blame her.

-L-

As had become common, I spent my late evening in the Palace of the Kings. This evening, Marguerite and I were doing fancy work—the former because she was teaching Anne, because a girl ought to have skills that can go to supporting her if something horrible should happen, so she wouldn't be completely un-provided for—while Henri read slowly and a little ponderously from a large book borrowed from Ulfric's library. In this case, it was a rather colorful procession of tales about the great kings of Windhelm—to which Roche-Guyon himself, making little what he called 'thumbnail sketches' for consideration, listened intently.

It was a comfortable evening, and although we were in the second half of Second Seed, the weather finally began approaching what I would call 'spring-like.' Windhelm wasn't known for its warm, fine weather, after all.

Suddenly, a knock at the door and Svana entered, looking pale. "Express directly from Solitude," she said simply, holding up a letter.

I got up, making an effort not to seem perturbed, an effort which became more pronounced when I saw that Mother's handwriting had a slight shake to it.

-L-

Proudspire Manor, Solitude

Second Seed 23,

From the Desk of Mme. Ashlynn

Assassination attempt on Emperor Titus Mede II occurred today. Rumor is that a decoy died in his place after being served poison. Murderer identified as a female Dunmer. Some confusion as to whether or not she was killed when she dove from the city into the River Karth below. Some say they saw an arrow strike her as she fell. Others say she couldn't survive the fall even if she was hale. Body has not yet been recovered, although the Penitus Oculatus are looking, and sending out warnings to nearby settlements. Interesting point: unit of Penitus Oculatus, disguised as standard legionnaires, left the city several hours before attempt was made. They had a couple big wagons with oilcloths covering whatever was in them.

More confusion as to whether this was a private act of vengeance, a politically motivated attack, or an action of one of the Orders of assassins. Security in the city has doubled. Thalmor have come crawling out of the woodwork to 'assist in this time of upset.' Clearly, they don't want an assassination. First Emissary Elenwen rumored to have made a trip to the _Katariah_ and was quickly sent back to the Thalmor headquarters in a bad humor. Possible she meant to persuade the Emperor to leave and failed? Docks are almost overrun with conspicuous Altmer.

The lack of this assassin's body concerns me. There may be another attack—this one successful. What happens if it is?

-L-

Mother didn't sign the letter, but she didn't have to.

"Bad news?" Marguerite asked, arching her golden eyebrows.

I manufactured a smile. "The Province is unsettled. Allow me to beg you to excuse me. There's no immediate danger, but my Jarl will take interest in this little scrap of gossip."

Marguerite didn't try to detain me, either accepting what I said as true or knowing that it was bad news and simply being unwilling to distress her children with it.

Ulfric, unusually, was alone in his study, seated at his desk and writing in what looked like a private journal. "Leandra."

"May we summon Galmar, my lord? I've had word from Solitude, and he ought to know if it."

Ulfric looked surprised, but nodded his assent.

Galmar was fetched quickly from his quarters, perplexed that it was at my request. Once he settled in a chair near Ulfric's desk, I pulled out the letter and read it, but left off identifying the sender. "I don't doubt my contact will send me another message, with more information, as soon as she can get it," I concluded. "But I thought you should know this was happening."

"The likelihood this assassin will kill the Emperor?" Ulfric frowned.

I considered. A dive off the stone bridge that is Solitude into the Karth below sounds desperate. And yet, for all it sounded like a botched job, it's possible it wasn't. If the assassin's body isn't found, then it might be because she was able to slither away—injured or not. "High. I don't understand why the Emperor is just sitting around as he is."

Unless he knows he's doomed and hopes to negotiate some kind of last-minute deal with his killer. Depending on to whom she belongs, she might be bribed… or she might accept payment from the Emperor to kill whoever took out the contract on him in the first place.

"Sometimes there's nowhere to run," Ulfric answered, with all the weight of a warrior who might have faced a scenario like that, himself. "And Titus Mede is growing old."

"The Dragonborn?" Galmar asked uneasily.

"If she wants a man dead, she'll kill him herself. She doesn't need to rely on assassins."

"She doesn't, eh?" Galmar pinned me with a look that asked the question his mouth didn't: _did_ _you_ _hire someone to kill the Emperor?_

I laughed. I couldn't help it. His approval of me fluctuates. "Assassinating Titus Mede wouldn't gain me anything but chaos and confusion, although I applaud your attempt at considering such agencies. No, Galmar. I haven't lifted one little finger, nor batted one eyelash malevolently, in the direction of our esteemed emperor."

Galmar grunted. In the interests of keeping things friendly, I'll allow this to mean 'fine, I believe you.'

"When the time comes, I'll want you to deliver my ultimatum to Balgruuf," Ulfric said, getting to his feet and closing his book. "It may happen on short notice, so be ready."

No one wants to be first to break the truce. But if someone like Titus Mede dies here in Skyrim, fingers will start pointing because tensions are already strained. It will be enough of a reason to break the Dragonborn's unexpectedly effective truce.

I didn't ask why he intended I should be the one to perform this task; clearly, he'd already discussed it with Galmar, or maybe Galmar approved without being consulted. I'm a slippery rogue, after all, and could probably talk myself out of not-too-much trouble. Balgruuf is known for his temper. Maybe it's just that Ulfric is banking on Balgruuf not wanting to give way to it against a lady like myself than he might be feel comfortable with doing toward someone like Galmar, who's 'big enough to take it.'

What I didn't like was being put on a leash if my work requires me to leave the city. I get a lot done via correspondence, but sometimes face-to-face is absolutely requisite. I don't like being penned up. However, I couldn't exactly say any of this while irritation gnawed at my speechcraft. "I await your word, my lord."

Ulfric snorted, which told me either my neutral expression needed work, or he was getting to know my moods and humors well enough to see past it. "Don't look so dour. It isn't as though I'm telling you to stay in the castle where I can find you if I want you. I said it _may_ be on short notice. If your duties have called you away, I shall… make do." He didn't look happy, but it mollified me, somewhat, not to be chained to a vague and indefinite eventuality without timeframe or point of reference.

"Then if I am unavailable, you should know my maid Svana is very pretty and very sweet, and will be suitable terrified of delivering a message to Balgruuf, and he will feel like a complete heel once he gets over his annoyance with you which he will have directed at her."

Ulfric laughed, nodding as if in recognition of the fact that I don't intimidate easily and will probably end up frowning like a governess at a rowdy charge if Balgruuf shows his temper to me. He wouldn't dare lay a hand, not so much as a little finger, on an emissary. It sends a bad message to people he's not in conflict with.

"You're sure of all your plans?" Ulfric asked, fingers drumming restlessly on his desk.

"Quite. Everything is in order. Right now, everything is simply in a state of waiting." I'd had a couple notes from Vignar, not quite asking me when things would start happening, but just to remind me he existed and was backing me, while telling me not to worry about the personnel I needed, who were content to wait as long as it took, patience being a virtue.

Ulfric nodded, then indicated with his head that I was dismissed, if I had nothing else to say. With a slight reverence, I withdrew.

Galmar's and Ulfric's voices rose in earnest, inaudible conversation the instant the door closed between us.

-L-

(Delivered by courier.)

Second Seed 24

Thank you for your message. I will be sending my business partner to you soon to have a look at Box of Wonders and to see whether she thinks Solitude will agree with our business aims. She will have an extension of our private communications network for you, that you may use and trust in its reliability.

Please keep me apprised of the local turmoil as you can, but do not take risks in carrying tales to satisfy my idle curiosities.

Yours very truly,

Lady Grey

-L-

It came to me during the night, a background thought that disrupted my nightmare—strangely involving flaming dogs that stood in as torches and Altmer-like creatures doing I-didn't-want-to-know-what half-in and half-out of the shadows—a thought so sudden and full of possibility that it woke me out of said nightmare to marvel at it.

Balgruuf belongs to the Dragonborn—or her party, I should say—and must be treated carefully. For a woman staying out of Skyrim's political waters, she's made herself quite the iceberg. But it's not possible she doesn't know her own value or how much trouble she's causing.

To an extent, so rumor suggests, Elisif also belongs to the Dragonborn's party. And Elisif, as the last High King's widow, is a valuable piece on the political chessboard. She knows it, and knows how many people would like to put her to work for them (so to speak).

Whatever Ulfric and Galmar think, just cowing the Jarls into backing Ulfric isn't enough. What's to stop them from doing what someone else has done and set a professional murderer on him? I'm not sure I could stop one of that ilk.

Sometimes it takes sugar, not bile to ensure long-term success.

If Ulfric can't have children of his own, a political marriage to Elisif—one of the oldest ways of 'patching' a Province with a troubled change in leadership—is pointless. The effort of softening Elisif to the idea would be the dedicated work of months, if not years. Not something I would look forward to affecting.

However, a woman would do much, endure much, bide her time patiently, if she thought her child might inherit the throne stolen from her late first husband. I wonder if Elisif would go for such a bait: to support Ulfric in return for the throne of Skyrim going any child of any marriage she might contract. She's still young and pretty, a second marriage is hardly out of the question, nor are several children if she wants them. And it isn't as though Ulfric has any close relations to pass even Windhelm to when he can no longer manage it.

And it isn't as if a child's education can't be influenced, subtly or not subtly. It depends on the tutors and the people close to that child. It depends on the parents, too, but the point remains: the heir-designate's education could be influenced.

I settled back against my pillows, studying the wooden ceiling of my bedroom. The Dragonborn might not have insinuated herself into Skyrim's politics directly, but she's made alliances that make the political waters difficult to navigate. It left me wondering where she was now, and why she'd gone there, and whether she really had the Amulet of Kings… and what she meant to do with it…


	42. Chapter 42

Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this chapter!

-L-

(Delivered by messenger hawk.)

Midyear 27

Leandra,

Strange things in the vicinity of Falkreath. I sent three of the lads to investigate; one of them was killed. I had the survivors write out what they saw, and I've enclosed those reports. I'd like to reassign both of them. Given the nature of what they've seen, neither they nor I feel safe having them in Falkreath.

Yours,

Geirlund

-L-

(After action report by Gerik By-Wood, appended to Geirlund's letter.)

Saw legionnaires with wagons while in Falkreath. Or men dressed as legionnaires. They had two priests or a handful of Stendarr's Vigilants with them. They shopped briefly at Grey Pine Goods while the leaders spoke to Siddgeir. Couldn't get in to hear what they were saying, but the whole City Watch was roused and put on guard before the legionnaires left.

Reported to Geirlund. Two men assigned to follow these legionnaires and find out where they were going and what they were going there to do.

Picked up the wagon train easily, followed them along the road at a distance. The wagons stopped, but most of the men moved forward. Nothing happened long enough for all three of us to find good positions. Too many Imperials to fight, but Geirlund said 'watch and remember.' So we watched and waited.

We seemed to all be watching a kind of door under a hill near the road. Maybe it was warded, because the Imperials didn't seem to want to try opening it.

About dusk, and old man in wayfarer's robes came out of the door. The Imperials peppered him with arrows so fast and so unexpectedly he only had time to throw up his arms to protect his face. It didn't help.

The Vigilants (or priests) went in first. I think there was something there that the Imperials might have had trouble with, for the sounds that came out of there were awful—like the screams of the outraged damned. But the Imperials swarmed in after them. One ran back to the wagons. They and the rest came.

The wagons had big barrels of oil in them. From beyond the door, lots of noise indicating a big fight. The screams and wails of the first wave stopped. Not long after the fighting started, one of the Imperials came running out with a child in his arms. Got permission to take her back to Falkreath.

Kid didn't seem happy, kept screaming for 'Nazir.' Fought like a little wildcat, but the soldier got up on a horse and took off.

Leif followed. Has a kid her age. I guess he just didn't want to leave this one with the Legion. Later, he was found dead with the legionnaire who took the kid originally. Looks like he killed the legionnaire but something else killed him. Had his throat torn out.

The legion meant to burn this place out: they had enough oil to fire Windhelm.

Out of the woods come two people, a Dunmer woman who moved as if in some pain, and an Imperial with red hair. Both wore armor of black and red… but the man wore a strange hat, like entertainers in Cyrodiil wear. The bells must have been silenced, because they didn't jingle.

I couldn't hear from where I was, but she seemed to give him instructions and sent him off.

He just up and jumped into the middle of the guard the Legion left outside. I never saw four men die so fast. And, while her fellow was dealing with the guard, she just walked in through the ruined door like nothing strange was happening. Stopped only long enough to look at the old man's body.

The man with the hat had just moved to follow the Dunmer when fire exploded below. He let loose a scream that chilled my blood—screamed for his mother, but darted into the dragon's throat that doorway had become like he didn't register how dangerous it would be.

We waited and watched. Eventually, the man with the hat reappeared, wrangling a Redguard who seemed intent on going back for someone. The man with the hat sealed the door. He and the Redguard argued, but the man with the hat seemed to have orders and wasn't inclined to let the Redguard interfere with his carrying them out. He also seemed to think sealing the door would somehow… help? They withdrew—Kor knows more—and I waited.

Kor found me and we talked. I sent him back to report to Geirlund. According to him, he'd heard enough to think they were Dark Brotherhood. It wouldn't do for these people to discover they'd been watched. I'm not entirely comfortable having done so, myself.

Hours later, the child, the Redguard, and the man with the hat re-opened their lair. They came out again not long after with the Dunmer and a large silver casket. The Dunmer was playing on a flute, and seemed to be levitating the casket while the man in the hat pushed it where he wanted it. They wrapped it in the cloths the Legionnaires used to hide the oil barrels, then put it in the wagon.

The man in the hat and the child got in the wagon and left.

The Redguard and the Dunmer sealed the door, then did what they could to… clean up the scene? They moved the wagons and the corpses—including that of the old man on the tree—onto the road and fired them, as if to make people think someone had been careless with flammable cargo. Once they seemed satisfied, the Dunmer…

…magicka isn't my strong point. She turned as if to speak to someone, and then there was a _ghost_! They talked a few moments, then the ghost vanished. The Dunmer whistled and a black horse came out of the forest. She and the Redguard climbed on and took off after the wagon.

Once I was satisfied they were gone, I went down to the door. It spoke to me, asked 'what is the color of the night?' I couldn't answer, so I didn't try. But the voice of the door chilled my very blood.

For once, I think the Legion had the right idea, but they didn't succeed in stamping out whatever this was. At least four survivors are still at large: a Dunmer woman with a black horse, a child of eight or nine, an Imperial with red hair and a strange hat, and a Redguard.

-L-

(After-action report by Kor of Windhelm, appended to Geirlund's letter)

Leif, Gerik and me went to find out what Gerik's wagons-full of Imperials were up to. Gerik got in as close as he could. I'm a scout. Circled from the north and got as high up as I could to watch their flank. Not too close.

The Imperials set up an ambush for whoever came out of the underground place first. They got an old man around dusk, then went in. Couldn't tell if they were just waiting on a cue or if they just couldn't get in on their own.

Not long after, a legionnaire comes out with a little girl. She's screaming and panicked. He takes her away. Leif follows. Found Leif when I went back to Gerilund: he killed the legionnaire taking the girl away. But his throat was ripped out. Looked like a vampire's work, not a beast's. But you don't usually see bites that small. Don't usually see child-vampires, either. Doesn't make sense for a proper child to be in a place like that.

Once the Imperials were well along getting their oil barrels into the underground lair, a horse comes charging through the forest. Horses don't normally do that: too much risk of running into a tree. But this one did, seemed to flow between trees or maybe the trees got out of its way. Black cloud seemed to swirl around it, like water. A more unholy beast I never saw in my life.

Carried two riders: a Dunmer woman and a man in a silly hat. The Dunmer stops the horse and gets off, helps her companion down. Didn't look too comfortable on a horse, to be honest. A moment later, the child on the legionnaire's horse appears. Her mouth and chin are bloody, eyes glowing.

I'm downwind of them, so no worry about being smelled.

The Dunmer must have told her to stay put and wait, because she climbs off the horse and tethers it nearby, then stands with the dark horse as it grazes, patting it.

The two adults go towards the legionnaires. The man kills all four of the men guarding the entrance. The woman lets him get on with it and heads past the door.

Things get really loud, then really quiet. Two men—the one with the hat and a Redguard—come out of the cave and rejoin the little girl. She's glad to see them, big hug and everything.

They settle down to wait. I swear I saw the horse eating a squirrel. Horses don't normally do that, either. Slipped out of my hiding place and found Gerik. He sent me back to Geirlund. Geirlund wanted me to write all this down.

Kor of Windhelm

-L-

Midyear 27

Palace of the Kings, Windhelm

To Commander Maro, Penitus Oculatus:

Commander,

Having received word of your men operating in Falkreath, it is my unpleasant duty to inform you that your trap has failed. At least four of your fugitives survived, as witnessed by operatives in the area: a Dunmer woman about whom you were sent some information (and who appears to have slipped through your fingers), a red-haired Imperial who seems to be her aid, a Redguard male, and a human child (possibly a vampire). None of the dozen-odd men you sent, nor the handful of Vigilants with them, were witnessed to have survived the burning out of these people's lair. If these are the same people responsible for the death of the Emperor's decoy last week, then you are dealing with some very potent, determined individuals.

I am writing, now, to disclaim any involvement by His Majesty, the rightful King of Skyrim Ulfric Stormcloak or Windhelm, or the movement associated with him. Please find enclosed copies of my reports, and please do something constructive about protecting your royal charge, for while Skyrim does not recognize Imperial masters, nor does it wish to leave what is left of this shattered Empire headless.

-L-

I paused, frowning at the letter as well as the copies I had made of Gerik's and Kor's reports—edited as needed to strip anything that might identify any of my agents or where they might be found. I didn't much like the rah-rah-cause-and-country formalities, but figured they couldn't hurt. If the note is passed on, then it sounds like a diehard Stormcloak wrote it. If they're expecting a zealot, then they're a hundred and eighty degrees in the wrong way in their expectations of me.

The letter needed a signature, but I found myself unwilling to put my name on it. It needed to go out immediately, and even then I had a certain presentiment that it wouldn't do me or anyone else any good.

Geirlund might have had the reports off to me as soon as he could, and I didn't have a hawk route set up for Solitude. Couriers can only go so fast.

With a sigh, I gathered the papers and headed for the Palace of the Kings. The last time I had to write Commander Maro, Ulfric signed the letter as a sign of good faith. When we sent out word to the other Jarls about this Dunmer criminal, it was also under his name.

-L-

Ulfric sighed heavily as he frowned at the letters and the reports, all the information relevant to this matter that I'd collected. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"I am currently unable to _work_ in Solitude," I declared bitterly.

"Even if you could, there's enough information to presume we're dealing with the last vestiges of the Dark Brotherhood. You don't stop the Dark Brotherhood." He didn't like this, but the fact is, better the Dark Brotherhood than a hundred self-styled assassins tripping over one another as they compete for kills.

The only reason no one realized how bloody a war between assassins is, is because the Dark Brotherhood and the Morag Tong have always done their best to clean up after themselves. The only one who knows how bloody that ages-old conflict was were those directly involved. And if we're talking about a scrum among freelancers rather than a decidedly two-sided fight, the mess magnifies.

"Or the first, if they succeed. I imagine recruitment will jump if they succeed and can take credit for the kill."

"The Dark Brotherhood has always existed," Ulfric said heavily. "Like it or not. I don't think you could stop this even if you could work in Solitude. And this," he tapped the paper with a thick finger, "is unlikely to arrive in any good time."

"I know." I suppose I could sign it Melisande Grey, Melisande being my middle name. Not too conspicuous, if no one is looking for Leandra Ashlynn behind the name.

"I don't count this… inability to intercede… against you, you know. You look a little concerned."

I blinked, looking up from the out-of-focus contemplation of nothing in particular. "Thank you, my lord. But I was actually wondering how to sign a document like that. Officially, I'm your diplomatic advisor, but that looks a little odd on paper."

Ulfric reread the document. "A job description would be appropriate."

"I don't think there's a name for what I do," I sighed.

"Oh, there's a name," he answered with a kind of somber amusement. "But it lacks subtlety and it's more than a little archaic."

What, like the Nords of today have stopped thinking smart compared to the Nords of yester-year? I rather supposed that myself, but it was strange hearing even a little confirmation that I wasn't just being cynical and sour in my suppositions. "Is there?"

Ulfric took a quill, and on a clean piece of parchment wrote a few words, then handed it to me with the expression of a man waiting for a punchline.

I took the paper.

 _Master of Assassins._

I snorted. "That _is_ lacking in subtlety. And very overdramatic."

"You never know. It might come in handy to know. Sooner or later, people are going to realize that role is now being filled. You can't keep yourself a secret forever."

The statement contained a question, perhaps several. Once I'm named and known, then the Thalmor know who to assassinate to return Ulfric to his previous level of competence. "Then I'll just have to hit hard, hit fast, and leave no survivors." And don't sign official documents like _that_. It didn't answer any of the questions his statement contained, but perhaps he didn't really expect me to answer what was never spoken. Just… give my thoughts a nudge in a certain direction.

"I'll sign this for you, if you like," Ulfric said. "To be honest, I'm beginning to suspect the Emperor of wanting a word with this assassin."

"It would explain his stubborn refusal to go back to Cyrodiil where he belongs," I answered sourly. "I suppose if he's sure this assassin is going to kill him, he'll try to make the most of his death."

"Like trying to get the man who had him assassinated assassinated in his turn?" Ulfric asked.

"It's what I'd do, if I didn't have any other options. But Titus Mede _has_ options. And why do you assume the person holding the money is a man?"

Ulfric laughed at this. "Perhaps because I'm growing accustomed to your… efficiency… when it comes to solving problems. You don't need two tries if you want someone dead badly enough. You go and make it happen, yourself."

"I shall take that as a compliment. Particularly since you put a moratorium on unsanctioned assassinations."

"You're going to cut yourself on that sharp tongue one of these days."

"Trust me, it isn't pretty when it happens. Fortunately, it doesn't happen often."

Ulfric signed the letter and, somewhat to my surprise, put the packet for Commander Maro into the hands of a well-paid, well-mounted courier—the horse came from Ulfric's own stable.

-L-

"Heya!"

"Kitty!" the muffled squeal of delight came from Svana downstairs.

I opened one lazy eye, shifting in the hot bath that had finally begun withering my toes and fingers into prunes. The light scent of flowers and herbs drifted up from the water, and with the damp chill of Windhelm's Midyear, I wasn't inclined to leave my warm, watery sanctuary. Or maybe it was just the dark cloud of mood hanging heavy on my mind.

The waiting ground on my nerves. I kept waiting for Svana or Suvaris—depending on the time of day—to burst in on me with bad news from Solitude. Six days since the Emperor's decoy was murdered. Two since the Dark Brotherhood—as I feel confident identifying them—were burned out and killed all those legionnaires. Or, I suppose, Penitus Oculatus agents traveling incognito.

I rolled my shoulders and settled back down in the hot water with a yawn. I'm going to need to get out, shortly. But it was so nice to have a proper hot soak with actual warming stones in the bath to heat it, then keep it hot, then I couldn't quite bring myself to abandon the luxury. I'd learned to live without them since leaving Solitude, but having such a thing again made me feel less like an exile. I hadn't realized how unusual an item such warming stones were outside of the capital.

Although I distinctly heard the visitor arrive, Svana did not come let me know we had one. It was entirely possible that the visitor was simply a friend of hers and nothing to do with me at all. However, curiosity being what it is, I finally got out of the bath, dried myself thoroughly, and dressed.

"—you're joking," Svana breathed in scandalized delight, caught between general disapproval and being too amused to disapprove too much.

A soft snort. "Well, unless those cute, dainty underthings are actually _his_ —and they looked a bit smaller than I think would be comfortable for him—then yeah."

"Avoiding that mental picture—"

"Why? It's not like he's old and decrepit with saggy buttcheeks and no starch in his—" The speaker was a small, skinny blonde girl, who lacked curves but had an impish face and large, golden eyes. She seemed to glitter with her enthusiasm, an effect doubtless helped along by the dusting of golden freckles across her rosy cheeks. When she saw me, she curbed her tongue and softened the probably ribald nature of her remark. "—no reason to be ashamed."

I recognized her less because she was familiar to me and more because of her sparkly nature. She was the girl who gathered Riften gossip for me ages ago. If I hadn't heard Svana call her Kitty earlier, I might not have remembered that, but I made of use of the information. "Good evening, Kitty."

Golden eyebrows arched, as if surprised that I remembered her name.

"I didn't know you two were acquainted."

"I had a little problem with her bitchy aunt," Kitty answered happily. "And was glad to stick it to her for Svana's amusement. Not the usual kind of sticking she's used to, Mara knows, but the change was probably good for her."

Svana cleared her throat delicately, eyes falling to her hands in her lap. Even now, she refused to say anything unpleasant about her aunt.

Kitty gave Svana a deprecating look, as if she thought Svana was free to express her exact opinion of Haelga, now that she didn't work for her. When Svana ignored the look, Kitty shrugged and stopped offering slights against Haelga. "I needed to talk to you… ah, Miss Ma'am." Whether she really didn't remember my name or was simply trying to be extra polite, I couldn't tell.

"Leandra," Svana filled in, jumping up from her seat and looking as if she would have liked to be busy.

"Oh, yeah. It is, isn't it?" Kitty asked, looking as if forgetting perplexed her. "Usually I'm really good with names and faces. Comes in handy, I can tell you!"

"So you remember who you've bilked this week?" Svana asked mildly.

" _Exactly_. That's why I'm here, you know," Kitty switched from talking to Svana to addressing me so fast I almost missed the change in object of address. Like her namesake, she could apparently change directions with lightning speed. "I've got a business favor I've got to ask you."

"Then we'll discuss it in my office."

Kitty followed me quietly, with a footstep as soft as velvet across the skin. "I'm looking for a… a mold? Property of Endon of Markarth, and says so somewhere on it? It'll be about this big," she indicated the shape in the air before her. The name Endon of Markarth recalled to me immediately what she wanted and where I had it stored. I meant to return it to him, but that small service did rather slip by degrees down my list of priorities until it fell off. "It was supposed to be in a bandit hoard at a place called Pinewatch, but when I got there I found _your guys_ instead of bandits and figured, eh, better ask the knowing one." She tapped her temple.

"How did you figure 'my guys'?" I asked, arching my eyebrows.

Kitty shrugged, waving one hand as if this was inconsequential. "I can read, you know, and I always go through people's desks. So when I saw Leandra and Windhelm together, I assumed it _must_ be you, and Bryn likes you better than Madame, and so do I as a matter of fact, so there you go." She beamed toothily, as if this rambling explanation held answers to the great mysteries of the universe.

You know, I think she'd be very annoying in large doses. I applaud anyone who can live with her for more than a day or two and yet retain their sanity.

"And what's the going rate for this box of mine?" I asked.

Kitty's expression scrunched up. "We'll be friends? What do you want?" Her smile was ingenuous… but I suspected she was thinking 'if your price is ridiculous, I'll just pay up, then nick it back off you and you'll never prove a thing.'

I studied her sunny features, then shrugged. "What say you owe me a favor?"

Kitty cast a look out the nearest window at Windhelm in general, grimacing. "I'm not political. And while I'm blonde and bubbly, I'm not dumb, either. 'A favor?'" she crossed her arms. "If you were a guy, I'd be wondering if I needed to knock your lights out." Or get someone a little bigger to do it. "And I'm not interested in women, thank you all the same."

"Not to worry, I'm taken," I answered demurely.

"Yeah?" Kitty brightened. "Is he cute? I'll bet he is. You're the kind of girl who usually gets the best of stuff." Her expression was wistful, rather than jealous. She sighed heavily, wandering over to my mirror and grimacing, probably at a figure lacking graceful curves. "Must be nice. Where were we?"

I didn't think she'd really lost track of the conversation, so much as she hoped I would have. "You were saying you don't do ambiguous favors."

"There's a big word." But she didn't ask for clarification, which made me suspect she was much more well-read than one might expect from the 'little sparkly urchin' routine she had going.

"I may need information or an item appropriated. Nothing outside your range of skills, I'm sure."

Kitty considered, then shrugged. "Why the hell not? If you've got my box, I'm sure I can pinch your something nice if you need something nice pinched. And it's not like I've got terribly much to do, so…" she bounced her head gently from side to side.

"You can wait in the kitchen while I fetch it. Svana can keep you company."

Kitty grinned, as if she'd been wondering whether I would leave her and her sticky fingers unattended… and wondering whether it was worth 'playing' some kind of game with me. "I like Svana. I'm glad she's not working for her bitchy aunt anymore. Be nice to her, yeah? I worry."

"You may ask Svana exactly how nice I am. She's an honest girl and will tell the truth, or she'll remain politely silent. As you very well know."

Kitty suddenly sneezed. Or, rather, she fake-sneezed. "Ugh, sorry. I'm allergic to overbearing morality." But she winked as if to ensure I knew she was just joking.

She's cute, I think. But I doubt I would continue to think so if I had to deal with her for any length of time, uninterrupted. It wasn't until I got downstairs and found the mold that I realized I would never, to my own satisfaction, be able to recap the conversation except in the most basic of general statements. The lack of accuracy in recounting a conversation with her that her chatter ensured impressed me.

She might seem a bit silly and sparkly, and harmless as a kitten, but there's a shrewd mind under that floppy blonde hair. She knows how to keep people from telling meaningful tales on or about her. I don't know if I'd call her clever, but she's smart enough.


	43. Chapter 43

Author's note: I'm not dead! I want to thank everyone who is still with this story: 2018 has been rough, but hopefully 2019 will be better. Your support means (and has meant) so much.

Looked over by the always-awesome 16DarkMidnight80—thank you so much!

-L-

(Delivered by messenger hawk.)

1 Sun's Height

Titus Mede is dead. The _Katariah_ was infiltrated, but no other casualties were reported; the attack was clean and precise. Rumor has it, the Emperor was found with a blossom of nightshade in his hands.

Marcus has applied to the Legion for reactivation.

-L-

"Thank you, Svana, for bring this to me." Mother's handwriting shook as she penned the lines of the message.

"Bad news?" Ulfric asked, leaning over slightly.

Wordlessly, I handed him the paper and continued with my breakfast as Svana withdrew. It wasn't as though I hadn't expected this note bearing these tidings—most of them—but it was still a bit of a shock to see concrete proof that it had happened.

Ulfric heaved a sigh, then handed the paper back to me. "That's that, then."

-L-

(Delivered by messenger hawk.)

2 Sun's Height

From the Desk of M. Ashlynn

Proudspire Manor

To my dear Lady Grey,

Forgive the brevity of my last message: things are getting interesting here in Solitude. Commander Cassius Maro was found dead in his office this morning. To all appearances, he hanged himself; the Legion investigators are treating it like a suicide, at any rate. I suppose the death of his son and his failure to protect the Emperor—I don't know if word of that tragedy has spread to you, yet—was more than he could bear.

No one and everyone seems to be talking: the Dark Brotherhood is being held responsible, on account of the nightshade blossom and the fact that no one on the _Katariah_ was killed or injured except for Titus Mede himself. The stories about what happened and how have grown by leaps and bounds as these things do, but I'll spare you the lurid tales told by the ignorant seeking a sensation.

Meanwhile, Jarl Elisif was out of the Blue Palace yesterday. It's been so long since she was out and about, I'd begun to think she was being kept prisoner or something. But no. Today, she was out with a single guard, enjoying a bit of shopping. I must say, her manners are as pretty as her face is. Her attendant didn't look too thrilled, but Jarl Elisif didn't seem to care.

I think General Tullius, poor overworked man that he is, might find his load considerably lightened if the Jarl's demeanor suggests that she's mourned enough to begin taking an appropriate interest in the affairs of her Hold. She actually questioned me at length about what it took to run a successful business!

When are you going to send your business partner up? We'd discussed it some time ago, but I haven't heard a peep from you or her, and I'm so anxious to meet her! I'd love it if you could come, but I know how busy you are, and how hard it is to get away. Just know that I'm thinking of you.

Yours,

Madame Ashlynn

-L-

(Sent by message hawk.)

4 Sun's Height

To my lovely Leandra,

Found a few bodies the road leading into the Imperial Province: possibly a traveler and his bodyguard. The kills were only a couple days old, but strangely undisturbed. The traveler was well-dressed, lots of money on him. The body hadn't been rummaged at all, as far as we could tell. The bodyguard's throat had been slit; the traveler had been stabbed several times in the back. Here's the funny thing: one man lay on either side of the middle of the road, and each held a nightshade blossom in his hands.

We took them both to Riverwood for something like a proper burial, but I'll bring their worldly effects with me when I come to Windhelm next; maybe you'll be able to make something out that we couldn't. Meanwhile, I've forwarded the most important-looking of their papers with this hawk.

I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to seeing you again. I'll be in Windhelm around the eleventh or twelfth.

Ralof.

-L-

I was looking forward to Ralof's next rotation back to Windhelm, too, with less apprehension than I might usually feel. Perhaps it was simply hearing him say he looked forward to it that quelled my own doubts and insecurities enough for me to enjoy the anticipation of the visit.

But since waiting makes time move slowly, I meant to profit by this by ensuring I kept very busy.

The papers appeared to be travel permits, but badly disfigured with blood; while the assailant hadn't damaged the papers themselves, the bleeding they inflicted had. Fortunately, Wuunfurth took one look at the blood, produced a vial, and shook it over the damaged papers. The blood immediately broke down and was siphoned off leaving the paper pristine and undamaged.

I teased him about needing a good blood-remover—'the Unliving' and all.

He teased me in turn by offering me the recipe—'diplomatic asset' and all—before accepting the delivery he'd been waiting for.

The travelers Ralof and his men found were identified as Amaund Motierre and Rexus (no surname given). Now, I keep myself abreast of politics, and there _is_ an Amaund Motierre on the Elder Council. I found it ironic that the men were discovered holding nightshade blossoms. The Emperor was found with some, and nightshade has always been associated with the Dark Brotherhood. The question was whether they were murdered as a multi-part contract involving the Emperor, or if they were something separate. I don't suppose it matters.

-L-

(Delivered by courier.)

6 Sun's Height,

City of Windhelm

To the Elder Council of Cyrodiil,

Cordial greetings and blessings of Talos upon you:

It is my grim duty to inform you that two citizens, by name Amaund Motierre and associate Rexus, were found murdered in Skyrim, sovereign country under the leadership of His Majesty Ulfric Stormcloak, on the road leading to the Imperial Province. This discovery was made on the fourth of Sun's Height, this 202nd year of the Fourth Era.

The murderer is currently unknown, but believed to belong to the Dark Brotherhood, as the Motierre-Rexus murders bear certain resemblances to the murder of your Emperor, Titus Mede II. As one of these names corresponds to the name of a member of the Elder Council, we feel it our duty to bring this matter to your attention.

As we expect you will wish to examine why a one of your esteemed colleagues was in Skyrim at all, as we are no longer a part of the Empire you represent, rest assured that our own provincial constabulary will be looking into the matter as well. The bodies were interred in the village of Riverwood. Should Master Motierre's or Master Rexus' next of kin wish to recover either body, they will be permitted to do so with the High King's blessing.

Requests for further information concerning the death of the Emperor should be directed to General Tullius, who received some advance warning of my concerns and notice of my findings before the tragedy occurred.

Cordially,

Thane Melisande Grey of Windhelm,

Diplomatic Advisor to Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm, rightful High King of Skyrim

-L-

(Delivered by courier.)

7 Sun's Height,

City of Windhelm

General Albion Tullius,

Having apprised the Elder Council of the murders of Amaund Motierre (possibly of the Elder Council) and his associate Rexus—and indicating that if they had further questions, they should contact you—I offer you a similar appraisal: their bodies were found on the road leading back to the Imperial Province. Each man's body was undisturbed, his personal effects left upon him, and each held in his hands a nightshade blossom. Concerned citizens have since removed the corpses to the vicinity of Riverwood, where proper burial was given.

Again, the Stormcloak movement decries any knowledge or involvement with these events.

Cordially,

Thane Melisande Grey of Windhelm,

Diplomatic Advisor to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm.

-L-

(Delivered by courier.)

Sun's Height 11

Black-Briar Manor

(Crossed out: From the Desk of Madame Maven Black-Briar)

To Madame Leandra Ashlynn,

Allow me to extend my most cordial greetings and heartfelt respects. Please excuse me for writing to you so unexpectedly—no doubt you will think me very forward indeed. I should like to extend an invitation to you to visit Riften. It's lovely this time of year, and I have a rather delicate matter that I think you might be able to help me with—you understand, I couldn't possibly write it down. Rest assured, the matter could prove extremely profitable for you, too, else I would never dream of extending such an offer so unexpectedly. I know you and my mother are on somewhat icy terms, but I hope that you will find me a much more charming host. In fact, it is rather on her recommendation—in a roundabout fashion—that I am reaching out to you. Please write to let me know the earliest you can come, I can't stress how much the sooner being the better.

Sincerely yours,

Master Hemming Black-Briar

-L-

"Oh, that's it," Ralof groaned as he sunk into the hot water, seeming to melt where he sat.

"It is nice, isn't it?" I asked, filling a cup with spiced wine and handing it to him.

"Nice doesn't cover it," he answered wearily, letting his head loll back. A long exhale left him appearing to sink even further into the hot water. "It's good to be home."

"…it's good to have you home." And it was, though perhaps I liked the idea of this being _our_ home a little more than I should. With a smile, I placed a kiss on his shoulder.

"What smells so good?" Because, of course, Svana's most recent culinary endeavor had the whole house smelling of delicious things.

Ralof, I discovered during his last rotation back to Windhelm, is rather partial to pheasant. Apparently, nothing is better when one gets out of the field than a hot bath and a hot meal.

"I asked Svana what she could do with a brace of pheasants. She said something about a snowberry sauce and potatoes."

Svana says pheasant is finicky, because its lean and dries out readily. However, she seemed more than up for the challenge. The house certainly smells delicious: the tang of the snowberries, something both spicy and aromatic, and the odor of cooking fowl.

"It sounds amazing," Ralof sighed, shifting in the water until his shoulders began to pop gently.

"She also has a secret dessert offering. She hasn't let me near the kitchen since she came back from marketing."

Svana likes Ralof. I don't fail to notice that she likes to put herself out when he's here… though that might also be because, with him to distract me from work, I pay more attention to what I'm eating.

The rest of Ralof's bath was spent in harmless conversation. I did most of the talking, less because I had terribly much to say and more because Ralof gave the impression of being in a mood to listen and relax. Some evenings were like that: it's just the tone and cadence that matter, not so much the subject material. Mother used to read to Marcus some evenings, when the day had been somehow long or arduous. She had to explain to me why it didn't bother her that she was reading but he wasn't really paying attention. 'Sometimes it's just the sound of your voice, darling, and that's enough.'

I half-wondered if the Legion accepted Marcus' request for reactivation, but only half-wondered. I don't care, and it doesn't matter either way.

A gentle tap on the door prefaced Svana's call, "Sir? My lady? Supper is ready. I'm afraid it won't wait long." With this, she disappeared back down to the kitchen.

Ralof groaned as he levered himself out of the water, accepting a warm towel from me before I withdrew from the room.

Mjoll, Aerin, and Suvaris had already assembled around the table, which was a testimony to the tempting scents on the air: usually, Aerin, Suvaris, and I need to be called twice before we find a convenient stopping place. But when Svana says something won't wait long, she means it will go downhill quickly if made to sit, and no one wants that.

Ralof was down a moment later. As soon as he was in the chair, Svana came in with the first set of plates.

A theme of 'it does look good,' comments ensued from all quarters—even Mjoll, who is of the opinion that it didn't matter how food was presented as long as it tasted good. Well, not only did this particular batch of pheasant-whatever smell delicious, but she'd taken the time to arrange the servings on the plate with some artistry. The pheasant lay under a blanket of rich, glistening snowberry sauce with nuts in it. Hollowed-out potatoes stood nearby, their guts now consisting of mashed potato, cheese and tiny pieces of shredded pheasant. Greens lay under more of the snowberry sauce. The requisite bread sat on its board with the knife nearby, still steaming.

It had taken a little effort to convince Suvaris to stay for dinner, partly because Ralof is a Stormcloak, and Suvaris holds them, in general, in some state of contempt. However, she yielded when I pointed out that Ralof wasn't just a Stormcloak: he was my fiancé. Curiosity (and, although she didn't come out and say it, the knowledge that I would never lower myself to the usual cut of Stormcloak) won her agreement.

I'm happy to say that Ralof won her appreciation, even if it might take her a few more times seeing him to really warm up to him.

After the pheasant came the dessert, a kind of pastry stuffed with a tooth-achingly sweet mix of snowberries, tart currants, and nuts, with a heavy dollop of sweetened cream on the side. It was definitely foreign. Mjoll, however, laughed out loud. "You did it!"

Svana, flushed with pride, nodded.

When everyone looked at her, Mjoll shrugged. "I mentioned coming across something like this in my travels… and apparently Svana has adapted it to Skyrim's ingredients." With that, she took a big bite, then wince. "Yep," she managed, once she swallowed. "Teeth-achingly sweet… and utterly perfect."

It _was_ tooth-achingly sweet. But, as Mjoll said, perfect. Using the cream with every bite helped ease the aching in my teeth, but I finished the portion I was given and debated asking for a second piece.

I didn't get past debating, because after answering a knock at the front door, Svana came in with a letter. "A courier just arrived from Riften, my lady. He's hoping to take your reply back with him?"

"Take him into the kitchen and get him something to eat, would you?" I asked, taking the envelope—an envelope from Hemming Black-Briar, of all people, in Riften.

Now, Hemming is Maven's oldest child, an unsavory fellow, but not nearly as depraved as Sibbi. He's got more bark than bite, but doesn't seem to realize it himself. The last gossip I had about him, he tried to come on to Wylandria, who popped out of her perpetual distracted haze long enough to threaten to shrink his reason for living until he wouldn't be able to find it with both hands—his or Haelga's.

Marcurio comes up with _the_ most excellent gossip. I don't know how he hears half of what he does, but of all the people I've placed around the Province in the past year, he's my favorite.

I scanned the letter, taking in the crossed-out 'From the Desk Of' that emblazons Madame's personal stationary, and it _was_ Maven's personal stationary, too: thick paper with gold embossing. The kind she only uses for important correspondences and which her children wouldn't touch if it was the last sheet of paper in the world.

His request for me to visit was likewise puzzling. I've had nothing to do with Hemming, who tends to avoid the people his mother isn't fond of, if he isn't trying to push them around. The repeated need of haste left me frowning, before slowly looking over at Ralof.

"Work?" he asked amiably.

"Someone I know in Riften is practically begging me to pay him a visit," I mused, rereading the note, then watching Ralof from beneath my lashes.

"Do you think you need to go?" Still amiable, not at all out of temper or put out by the fact that I'm about to miss a solid chunk of his leave.

"I'm intrigued. I've never had much to do with Hemming, so it's odd for him to reach out to me in this fashion."

"I'm going to take that as my cue," Suvaris said comfortably, before disappearing into the kitchen where she declared to Svana that this meal had wrecked her diet… and she wasn't sure she could bring herself to care, it was so excellent.

Mjoll and Aerin, likewise, withdrew, leaving Ralof and me at the table.

"If you're intrigued, I think you should go," Ralof said simply, pouring himself a glass of water.

"It would mean missing most of your leave."

He smiled at me, then held out a hand for one of mine, work-worn fingers closing warm and secure around my own. "Not a bit of it: Riften _is_ lovely this time of year. And you really shouldn't travel alone. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't Mjoll rather on the outs with the establishment down there?"

"…she is…" I answered, more than a little touched. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay here and rest?"

"I'd rather enjoy your company than not," came the earnest answer.

I found it difficult to meet his grey eyes, a smile tugging at my lips while tears tried to sting my eyes. "Then I'll let Hemming know to expect us. We leave tomorrow, if that's agreeable to you."

Ralof's hand tightened on mine, rather than letting me go. "I know your work is beyond a soldier's work," he declared slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. "I don't blame you if things come up that you have to deal with right away. You're not… forgive me, you're not really normal wife material. And I'm content with that, because not everyone can do what you do."

My mouth dropped open, but nothing came out for a few moments.

"So," Ralof kissed my wrist with a smile and got to his feet. "Do what you're good at, and I'll follow where you go. Maybe I'll come in handy."

"If nothing else, you'll vastly improve the scenery." Instead of whisking off to draft a letter of reply, I stepped around the table and wrapped my arms around Ralof, who returned the embrace without hesitation. "I don't deserve you," I whispered, half to myself and half to him.

"Some days I wonder what a pretty, clever woman like you sees in a common craftsman from a riverside village," he answered.

I had to laugh a little, but only because my other option was to cry. "Keep me company?"

"Gladly."

With that, we walked up the stairs to my office. I really ought to see about building a few additions to the house. A real office space separate from my bedroom might be nice.

While I drafted my letter of reply, assuring Hemming that I would leave for Riften first thing in the morning, Ralof sat on the edge of the bed, humming tunelessly.

-L-

(Delivered by courier.)

Sun's Height 12

Imperial City, Cyrodiil

From the Elder Council, Interim Council of Regents for Tamriel

(Penned by Aithne Tullius, Court Scribe to the Elder Council.)

General Tullius:

Disturbing rumors have begun leaking out of that rebellious Province to which you were dispatched. The Emperor dead. Our own Amaund Motierre—who hasn't been seen in months—also dead, and both these events on your watch. And neither of these matters seem important enough to you to inform us directly: we have to hear it from that upstart Ulfric's secretary.

It would be well for you to assemble a full report of the goings-on in that Province and send it to us by return of this courier. If you cannot perform the functions which you were dispatched to perform, we shall begin seeking your replacement. We need hardly tell you how tenuous the political situation is now, with the Emperor—gods rest his soul—dead, and no clear successors.

First Emissary Lovidalf has repeatedly expressed concern over your lack of progress with the Skyrim Situation, and in light of these recent murders, we are forced to share his concerns. You might expect an influx of Thalmor Inquisitors, as Lovidalf is no doubt in contact with First Emissary Elenwen as we speak.

Bring us up to speed, then bring this situation to heel. If we do not see meaningful efforts on your part, you may begin planning for your retirement. First Emissary Lovidalf would like to point out that another debacle like the loss of the Emperor and you needn't plan for any future at all.

Yours cordially,

(The seals of the Elder Council, sans Amaund Motierre, follow.)


	44. Chapter 44

Author's Note: Special thanks to 16DarMidnight80, who looks over these chapters and catches my typos. ^_^

-L-

Something was amiss in the Black-Briar household. It didn't take long to get that sense, as if Madame's heavy-handed rulership had suddenly and inexplicably lifted. Rather than the brooding darkness of Madame's omnipresence, a sense of unease and wrong-footedness permeated the air.

It was less like a mausoleum and more like… like a house in which someone was very ill, and no one could wait for that ill person to get it over with and die already.

This impression was further encouraged by the excellent wine to which Hemming helped both Ralof and myself, and the array of delicate pastries—the kind one serves when one either truly likes the guest, or wishes to impress them—arrayed on the small table. I'd never been in the parlour before, but it was a well-furnished room that seemed determined to impress anyone who came into it.

"I'm so grateful you could come, Madame Ashlynn," Hemming declared, watching as Ralof and I sipped our wine before taking a generous draught himself. "Pastries?"

I took one out of courtesy, but rather than eat it, slowly began crumbling it to pieces. "I'll admit, I was intrigued by your letter, Master Black-Briar, being under the impression that your mother would rather spit in my face than invite me to visit."

Hemming laughed, a little nervously at this. "Yes, well, Mother could be quite charming after her own fashion, couldn't she? But I assure you, she always spoke well of your cleverness and cunning."

I'll bet she did. They got the better of her once or twice, after all.

"It was her insistence that you possessed these two traits in such abundance that prompted me to reach out to you. Something has come up and I find myself somewhat at a loss." His rat-face, with its unpleasant, sparse, stringy attempts at a beard and mustache, didn't look at a loss. He looked like someone who wasn't good at it, trying desperately to scheme hard. I wouldn't call Hemming handsome on the best of days, but the shrewd expression that crossed his face left me feeling as though I was about to handle something slimy and disgusting.

Madame might have ruled the roost, but I can see why: her children are all a bit substandard. One is in jail (but belongs on the block), one is obsessed with poisons (rumor is her rabbits can't breed fast enough), and then there's this one, a would-be schemer. Not one of them has had the guts to cross their mother before—although Sibbi did so simply by being himself, not by going out of his way to do so.

"I'm going to trust you'll be discreet. Would you come with me?"

"You don't object if my escort comes as well?" I asked, standing up and indicating Ralof.

Hemming regarded Ralof, who stood up next to me, contriving to appear as if he towered over me and successfully left me standing in his protective shadow. "…if you can answer for his discretion… I don't think that would be a problem."

"I'll gladly answer for him."

"This way." Hemming set off briskly, leading us down into the cellar. He produced a small key and applied it to the lock of an inconspicuous door. "This may be rather unpleasant," he warned, then pushed the door open.

The smell of death and decay, laced with nightshade, hit me like a wall, leaving my stomach turning in its place and Ralof swearing softly.

Two corpses lay on the floor. One had been dead for a long, long time, shriveled and desiccated. I had the sudden insane urge to laugh, because when cracks about Madame being in bed with the Dark Brotherhood were made, jokes about her husband's body playing a role in calling them followed. This corpse lay surrounded by putrefying organs, while burnt-down candles formed an oval around the corpse. I won't say most people took the rumors about Madame and the Dark Brotherhood _too_ seriously… but there was concrete proof here that she'd tried to summon them at least once.

On the floor nearby, in a puddle of her own blood, was the beginning to turn corpse of Madame. Her expression was one of horror, as if she knew she'd been killed before she actually died. And in her hands, cradled against her chest as if protecting it, lay a nightshade blossom much fresher than those scattered on the floor.

Hemming reached into his jacket, evidently trying not to breathe, and handed me a note. Sweat stood out on his forehead, while his eyes darted about as if trying not to see the corpses or the blood.

A bit squeamish, isn't he? Or maybe I'm simply hardened. It's hard to tell sometimes.

The note consisted of three words, and was clearly meant for whoever found the body: _'Learn from this.'_

There was no signature, but the handprint made in what was clearly blackened, flaking blood, left no doubts about the identity of the writer: a member of the Dark Brotherhood with their Black Hand symbolism. The handwriting had a spiky quality to it, as if the hand that wrote it was used to using different strokes for the letters.

"Perhaps we could withdraw back to the parlour?" Hemming asked, voice muffled by the sleeve he'd begun holding over his nose.

It was an opportunity to demonstrate the kind of hard woman this soft idiot was dealing with, so I took it. "I need to see the body." I moved forward, the body stiff as I maneuvered her onto her stomach to find the wound that killed her. It looked like the plunge of a dagger, but without undressing her, her thick robes left the exact wounds in some doubt. I felt fairly certain it was a dagger. There were several strokes as if she'd been struck once, then again and again as if for surety. All the wounds bled copiously, saturating—at the time—her heavy garments. Those were now stiff with flaking blood.

Hemming must have written me while her blood was still congealing. Interesting.

The blow came from the _back_ , yet she knew she'd been murdered. That suggests she had two visitors: one she stood facing, and one behind her. With only the door leading in as means of access, it was unlikely she didn't know she had two visitors.

"Really, my lady, you needn't subject yourself to this," Hemming offered faintly.

"It's nothing, really," I answered absently.

Ralof, who had moved to crouch across from me, grinned. Although his expression crumpled at the reek of death and decay, it clearly didn't bother him as much as it did Hemming… and I can't say the fact that Madame here is the man's mother mattered much. Hemming simply lacked something in constitution.

Except for Madame's signet ring—which I suspected Hemming had—nothing seemed to have been removed from her person.

So, the Emperor, Amaund Motierre (and Rexus), as well as Madame Black-Briar. All of their belongings intact, all cradling a nightshade flower. Either a serial killer, or the Dark Brotherhood has a killer leaving calling cards. I'm inclined to go with the latter… partly because it's less frightening—I've had my fill of serial killers—but mostly because the facts are suggestive.

I mean, you don't get much more obvious than the handprint.

"It looks to me like the Dark Brotherhood got tired of your mother," I declared to Hemming, rising from where I crouched, and finally exiting the room.

Hemming hurriedly locked it back up. "Yes… and as you can see, that poses a bit of a problem for me. Please, let's go back upstairs."

I didn't offer protest, but followed him.

Once we were closeted back in the parlour, Hemming began again. "Right now, you understand, everyone believes Mother is sick abed and I've been attending to her care myself." He leaned forward, rat-face almost imploring. "I need to make this go away, or… well… to make it more _acceptable_."

"And you thought _I_ could do that?"

Hemming squirmed. "Mother did mention, once or twice, that you could get away with murder. She didn't mean it as a compliment, of course, but I thought…" He looked hopeful, but I know his ilk. It's best to handle him very carefully.

"So you want me to make her death more acceptable," I mused. "Not an easy task. Any guard worth his boots will know knife wounds when he sees them. And her back is covered in them."

"I know, I know…" Hemming began to wring his hands, some of his unctuous manner beginning to erode to reveal real distress—less about his mother's murder, I daresay, and more what people will say of him if it gets out that Madame really did have dealings with the Dark Brotherhood. It's one thing for something like that to be a rumor; it's another for it to be known as a fact, and stigmas have a way of transferring to children. "Consider this the first step in a partnership," he added eagerly.

"Partnership?"

Some of the wildness eased from Hemming's expression, shrewdness that left him looking a bit like his mother creeping back in. "Mother thought you were angling to get your hooks into the Black-Briar business."

I shrugged. "I could take it or leave it." But I'm always on the lookout to expand my reach, and merchants can go where others can't. More than that, they hear things, because no one buys and sells without small talk and/or gossip.

"Help me make this go away, or just make it look less like what it is, and I'll give you control of the Black-Briar Meadery."

I blinked several times, not sure I heard him right.

Hemming chuckled. "Oh, yes. You see, I've no real interest in running the business. Mother certainly never seemed to think any of us were worthy to inherit it… and it will have the old bitch turning over in her grave to think that her precious empire is in your lovely hands." He gave me a smile that made an attempt to be charming, but which really didn't manage. "All I want is a generous stipend; I want to be my own man, stretch my wings a little." Anger and resentment of his mother's stranglehold on his life began to show in earnest. Hemming was, after all, the closest thing to a lieutenant Madame had. She probably would have left him the business when she was done with it, if only because her other options were less satisfactory.

And I thought my family had problems.

"Pay me to stay out of your way," Hemming pressed eagerly, "and you can do _anything_ you want with the business. Expand? Export? Pick a new direction? All I need is a little assurance that we can work together."

I studied Hemming closely. To be honest, this wasn't what I expected. I _could_ do a lot with the Black-Briar Meadery. Even if he owns it on paper, but I have control over it, I can make my own business interests take several leaps and bounds forward. Income is income, after all, and while I'm not strapped for money yet, you never know. And my work for Ulfric has the potential to get expensive from time to time.

And don't I know of someone who wants to market Black-Briar mead in the Pale? Imagine if I had people—people who know how to listen and know how to get other people talking—traveling between Riften and a single capital. What might they learn that could be to my advantage?

It would be a lot of work, though, on top of what I already have. But if I know Maven, even if I let the business sit only marginally attended, the business will still run itself as long as it's known that someone has a firm hand on the reins. Because Madame's business structure was such that she didn't _need_ to put her stamp on everything, just everything of this magnitude and above—how else would she have had the time she did for expansion and bridge-building (or bridge-burning) with other businesses or citizens? Hemming was her trusted lieutenant only because he was family; she had plenty of capable managers. I imagine she kept them on a short leash, but she had them.

As to this 'pay me to stay out of the way,' I can see why he would want that. Selling the business would be a lot of money up front, but he'd probably squander it. He's used to living on a stipend, probably a narrow one, so that at least, would be familiar.

And he thinks he's clever. That sort can always be counted on to prefer a nebulous future of 'possibilities.' Those who actually _are_ clever tend not to like nebulous clouds of possibility: we make them concrete as soon as possible so we know what we're working toward and can get the logistics under control.

"I know, I know, it's a rather suspicious offer," Hemming interjected.

"It's _very_ suspicious, Master Black-Briar," I answered dryly. "But if you were to commit on paper to such an arrangement… I think we might be able to work something out. Something mutually beneficial." For instance, a limit on him whining for a pay rise every couple weeks. A document that doesn't exist until I need to pull him up short.

Hemming shifted nervously, possibly sensing that I would only ask for a paper commitment if I meant to use it against him at some point.

"You're your mother's son, Hemming," I layered the words with flattery. "Surely that requires some caution on my part? One didn't deal with Madame lightly."

Predictably, he liked this. Men like him are easy to manipulate. "I even know who we can pin the murder on: Ingun," he said, scooting to the edge of his seat as if with anticipation.

"Your sister?" Ouch. That's cold-blooded.

"Who hasn't been seen since the night my mother was killed!" Hemming hastily added, holding up a finger as if to forestall argument. "If Ingun's gone and left Riften, she's not coming back. She always said she could be someone if Mother would only let her…"

"But you don't think she was involved?" Ralof broke in, frowning.

"Oh, no. No, no. You don't know Ingun," Hemming almost laughed.

"She'd use a cup, not a knife," I supplied in an undertone.

"Nice family," Ralof mumbled.

He has no idea, thank goodness.

"Well, I think I could probably build a convincing case for how Ingun killed your mother. But I'd need something in return, something to show me you're willing to work with me. We'll discuss Black-Briar Meadery another time, as another arrangement." A cold smile touched my lips.

"What… do you want?" Hemming asked nervously.

My first thought was of poor Mjoll, and her efforts to clean up Riften stymied by 'the system.' "Your brother Sibbi. I believe your mother's word was keeping the full extent of the law from coming down on him. I want him prosecuted for the murder he committed." Because, if he wants me to get my hands dirty with his sister, for the sake of making his mother's death more acceptable, I'll want to see him actually doing something constructive.

The fact that, if Sibbi is successfully prosecuted for murder, and punished according to the law, Maven's inheritance comes solely to Hemming, with no one to interfere or share with—one reason he wanted to implicate his sister in the murder of their mother. Hemming knew this very well, which was why he smiled greasily. "Why, I would be glad to ensure that little snot gets what he deserves. Justice before all." He bowed his head with a sanctimonious expression that made me want to laugh.

"The day his head rolls, I'll draft our arrangement about the Meadery, and you can see if it's to your tastes."

"A _generous_ stipend," Hemming inserted hastily, holding up a finger.

"Why, Hemming. I'm not Maven. A man like you has expensive tastes, I can see that." I gave him my prettiest smile, watched as he relaxed a little. "Now, I'm going to go to the Bee and Barb for a drink, and a think."

"Call on me for supper!" Hemming almost shouted in his enthusiasm—the enthusiasm, strangely, of a little boy who suddenly has everything he ever wanted handed to him. "By all means, bring your… companion… with you."

"Meanwhile, keep up the ruse that Madame is sick abed, but let it slip that, perhaps, she's taking a turn for the worse." With that, I finished my wine, got up, and let Hemming usher us to the door.

"What a nasty little man," Ralof exhaled sharply, once we were back out under the sun.

"He is rather distasteful, yes," I answered. But whether I find him so or not is irrelevant. Business is business. The point is, he's easy to manipulate.

"Are you really going to help him with that thing?"

I sighed, some of my cold calculation melting as I glanced up at Ralof. "My job can be unpleasant. I'm sorry." And this is just a _little_ taste of how unpleasant. If he can't handle that, I understand—

I didn't get the chance to slip away and give him some space to chew this over: he looped his arm through mine as I passed and kept pace with me, as if refusing to let me slither off. "Did you plan to pay your respects at the Hall of the Dead?" he asked, as if I hadn't just admitted I was going to frame someone for murder… or, at least, cast a reasonable suspicion over her.

"Yes. Probably after supper." I have a presentiment that I'll need the peace and quiet.

-L-

"That nasty, ridiculous little skeever!" I hissed, feeling the blood rush out of my face as I regarded the packet of letters sent to me by Hemming. It was just after lunch, and suddenly I wished I hadn't eaten so much.

"What did he do?" Ralof asked, finishing his tankard of goats' milk.

I held up one of the letters, addressed to someone named 'Astrid,' apparently a member of the Dark Brotherhood, demanding recognition. "If someone sees all these, they'll assume I was trying to blackmail that woman—or could be prompted to assume that I was," I answered angrily.

"Do you think he did it on purpose?" Ralof asked, getting to his feet and scowling at the wall in the direction of Black-Briar Manor.

"…no… perhaps not," I reflected uneasily. "That might be too clever an idea for Hemming. Nevertheless… it's best not to take any risks."

There were other letters from various sources, all of which could be interpreted as 'blackmail material.' I _think_ Hemming simply wanted me to be aware of the pies his mother had her fingers in… but damn it all! This is _not_ the way to do so!

Relax. I knew he was a fool who thought he was clever. This just goes to show.

"I'm heading down into the Ratway," I finally announced. "I'll meet you back here and we'll go to dinner."

Ralof did not try to detain me, for which I was grateful, nor did he attempt to stick to me like glue, for which I was even more grateful. My own guilty conscience was enough to leave me jumping at shadows, and the Ragged Flagon isn't his cup of tea. Nice boys don't do well in places like that: the locals like to tease.

-L-

I spent the entire afternoon in the Ragged Flagon pouring over Madame's correspondence. I spoke to no one but the bartender, and no one spoke to me.

I also considered Hemming's character, such as I knew of him. In general, I thought he was likely to be extremely malleable, if treated delicately. He wants to _be_ someone, so I understand—lots of money is a way to do that—and he doesn't want the responsibility of running the family business.

So really, saying he would be paid to stay out of the way is quite exact. The trick is to trap him so that if he starts getting in the way, I have legal recourse. Fortunately, I do know a thing or two about business contracts, and since we're not going to mention the event that opened the door to this partnership, there's nothing really incriminating, beyond the correspondences in my satchel. Allying myself with Black-Briar Meadery is something that can be done above board.

I consigned those possibly incriminating correspondences to the waters over which the Ragged Flagon was built as soon as I'd combed through them. Madame is dead, so blackmailing her is pointless. The rest of my afternoon was dedicated to planning how to incriminate Ingun, how to move Madame's corpse, and how to convince anyone who sees it that she hasn't been dead as long as it looks like she has.

Fortunately, this is Riften. Almost anyone here can be bought, and Madame was never popular enough for anyone to care that she's dead. I suppose she ought to have been a little nicer.

Perhaps a good lesson for myself, hm? Don't alienate people to the point there's no one to seek justice for your murder. Although I somehow doubt the Dark Brotherhood considers hers a real murder.

-L-

"And your mother is still ill?" I asked, all sweet sympathy as I stirred the creamy pumpkin soup the servants brought for us.

"Yes, very, very ill. To be honest, I'm not sure what's wrong. I spoke to the local apothecary, and he gave me some tea for her, but it's been a nightmare trying to get her to take it. You know how she is," Hemming sighed, shaking his head wearily.

Good way to quell questions of why a healer of some description hasn't been sent for.

The Black-Briar dining room, like the parlour I'd been in earlier, was well-appointed, but I had a feeling that the meal was more extravagant than Madame would usually allow for guests. Hemming, so far, had been nothing but the consummate host. If I hadn't known he was after something, I would have praised his hospitality as being first rate. However, knowing what I knew, I could recognize a show being put on when I saw one.

I didn't complain. The more I know him, the easier to deal with he'll be. And the pumpkin soup really was good, and this coming from someone who doesn't usually like pumpkin soup.

It wasn't until after dessert, Hemming ushering us into the parlour again, that we could talk business. "Well? Have you given my proposal any thought?" he asked eagerly, once the door was closed.

With a smile, I produced a folded slip of paper, meticulously printed so the handwriting couldn't be recognized as mine. I held it out to him, and he took it, looking puzzled.

His eyes darted back and forth as he read, a look of burgeoning respect and delight suffusing his rodent-like features. "My dear Lady Ashlynn!"

"I go by Grey, now," I declared blandly.

"Grey, of course," he corrected himself absently, without questioning why the change of name. "You are truly the most brilliant woman."

The paper contained, of course, a list of things to do and how to do them that would create the 'more appropriate' death he wanted for his mother, without my appearing on the scene like an unexpected shadow. If I'm to run the business while he plays figurehead to it, it was a good taste of what he could expect from a business arrangement.

"I know it leaves you a bit of work, but it's so much better, given what you asked me for, that I shouldn't figure in too prominently."

"Oh, no, no, of course not. You're quite right."

While he was distracted, I warmed my tone, pulling out the flattery, which he would take in passively. "And I imagine you're more than capable of pulling off all these little tasks."

Mostly, he's going to play the fool and trey to pass Madame's death off as illness. When it's discovered—as it undoubtedly will be—that the wounds in her back are knife wounds, Hemming will break down and incriminate his sister, whom he was trying to protect for the sake of avoiding scandal. That will open the necessary pockets to keep the matter quiet.

The little room in the cellar will be cleaned out long before anyone thinks to want to search the house, if anyone does at all. A neat little plan, if I may say so myself.

"Oh, yes, quite. And you think these arrangements will work?" He looked up from the paper, eyes sparkling with hope and enthusiasm. You know, I think the apples of Madame's family tree rolled a considerable distance before stopping. There's not a one of her children with her brains, subtlety, or cold calculation.

Ah well. I suppose I might be a little enthusiastic if I suddenly found myself out from under an oppressive parent's thumb, free to be my own person and never again cater to whatever whims might be 'of the day.'

"I'm quite certain they will," I answered demurely. "It's been rendered down to a question of price, nothing more."

"Of course, I can see that," Hemming agreed, re-reading the list. "I _do_ look forward to doing business with you in future, Lady Grey. May I call you Leandra?" In this, he seemed sincere.

And, since I wanted him friendly at the moment, I put on my most charming smile and offered him my hand. "Of course, Hemming."


	45. Chapter 45

Author's Note: Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this chapter!

-L-

I arrived at the Palace of the Kings the morning after my return from Riften in response to a very official summons. Ulfric and Galmar both stood over the map in the strategy room, but for once they weren't moving around little flags and markers.

"What's happened?" I demanded, holding up the summons.

"I'm sending to you Whiterun. Immediately," Ulfric declared brusquely.

"What happened?"

"A courier out of the Imperial Province was intercepted," Ulfric answered with a grim smile. "Apparently Tullius placed a request with the Empire for more war materiel, which was denied. If he's that at a disadvantage, we'd be stupid not to press our advantage. That means it's time for Balgruuf to pick a side—and for you to be ready to deal with it, either way." He picked Whiterun's little ribbon flag off the map and held it out to me.

A chill suffused my blood, guts clenching with apprehension as I took the flag. "Everything is ready, of course. How fast can you get your siege equipment into place?"

"The ink's still drying on the mobilization orders. They'll travel more slowly than you will, so you should be able to get to Whiterun, bring me Balgruuf's answer, and get back before the siege starts. Can you work within that arrangement?"

"Undoubtedly. As long as I get in before the gates close. But you mentioned getting there and bringing back Balgruuf's answer?" I set the little flag back over Whiterun, a straying prayer to Mara drifting through my mind: let Balgruuf be reasonable, for the sake of his children.

"Yes. Galmar?"

Galmar walked over to a bench against a wall, picking up a package wrapped in oilcloth, which he undid to reveal Stormcloack blue velvet. Within the velvet, was an axe. An elegant weapon, but well-used. Galmar gave me ample time to see and appreciate the workmanship before wrapping it back up and handing the package to me.

I immediately pegged it as some antiquated custom of Skyrim the average citizen wouldn't know about. "Should any particular message accompany this fine blade?"

Ulfric's smile was thin, as if he knew what I wasn't asking. "Men who understand each other often have no need for words."

"Of course. I'll leave before noon."

Ulfric nodded to this. "Watch yourself. Balgruuf's temper is no joking matter."

Suddenly, a thought struck me, one that left me smiling: Balgruuf might, if his temper is no joke, send the head of a man back to Ulfric. He might be a little more restrained when dealing with a woman. "It _is_ best to send someone clever enough to keep their head where it belongs," I answered idly, causing both Ulfric and Galmar to laugh.

"You caught that, did you?" Ulfric asked indulgently.

"I did."

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk.)

22 Sun's Height

Hjerim, Windhelm

Ysolda,

Do you remember that shop in Solitude we discussed? I finally made arrangements with the current proprietress! She's expecting you to leave in the next couple of days, and arrive a few days after that. Madame Ashlynn is the best of hostesses—although I do ask that you remember my name being somewhat out of favor with her husband, Marcus. I'm sure she'll treat you handsomely, and answer any questions you might pose on my behalf.

You can write to her yourself at Proudspire Manor, Solitude, though it would really be best to meet her in person as quickly as possible.

Wishing you lots of luck,

Leandra

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk.)

22 Sun's Height

Madame Ashlynn,

I've been in contact with my business partner, Ysolda, whom I mentioned to you. She should be departing Whiterun in a few days, and arriving in Solitude a few days after that. I gave her your home address, so she knows where to send any correspondences that might benefit from being direct to you. If you can contrive to keep her for a few days, I'd be grateful. She works so hard and could use a little rest, whatever she says about the matter. Pick her brain about her thoughts on the Khajiit caravans if you need inspiration.

Yours,

Lady Grey

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk)

22 Sun's Height

Avulstein:

Position your group on the main road leading from Whiterun to Solitude. Should the Empire try moving anything of consequence along that road, harass and harry them to the best of your ability. Report to me on any such movements immediately.

Lady Grey

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk)

22 Sun's Height

Geirlund:

Position your group on the road leading from Whiterun to Falkreath. Should the Empire try moving anything of consequence along that road, harass and harry them to the best of your ability. Report to me on any such movements immediately.

Lady Grey

-L-

(Delivered by message hawk)

22 Sun's Height

Thorald:

Position your group on the main road leading from Whiterun to Markarth. Should the Empire try moving anything of consequence along that road, harass and harry them to the best of your ability. Report to me on any such movements immediately.

Lady Grey

-L-

Dragonsreach was a lovely place compared to the Palace of the Kings in Windhelm, all warm wood and blazing fires, it seemed to embody warmth and welcome. Even with M. Roche-Guyon's efforts—all of which were shrouded behind obscuring cloths, as the artist insisted that the full effect could not be appreciate piecemeal. We would just have to wait—so he said—for him to finish the room to appreciate his art. I'll admit, the place looked a bit shabbier with all those cloths draping the walls, as if hiding disfigurement of the stonework. On the upside, I did notice a few fewer drafts from those finished sections of the walls.

At the end of the long hall sat Jarl Balgruuf, blonde and lean, his eyes narrowed as I padded sedately up to his throne. His eyes shifted from my face, to the bundle in my arms, and back. His knuckles blanched as his right hand curled into a fist and his nostrils flared. He was the picture of a man abruptly forced to act when he would rather have not.

At his right stood the Dunmer Irileth—a doggedly devoted woman and a formidable warrior—her eyes fixed on my face as if committing me to memory. Her teeth seemed to be gritted together, her whole posture radiating tension.

Hrongar stood to his brother's left, radiating aggression and resentment of my very presence. Now _he's_ one I might not want to try the hostage scheme with. He strikes me as the sort who would rather see his loved ones dead than used against him or his Hold.

Fortunately, I'm dealing with Balgruuf.

Proventus Avinicci stood at Hrongar's elbow, his eyes fixed on the bundle in my arms as if it might speak to him. He shifted uneasily, glancing at his Jarl before looking back at me, his brow furrowing deeply.

I stopped at exactly the prescribed distance before curtsying deeply, my skirts pooling about me, bowing my head submissively.

Balgruuf didn't mince words: the blue velvet of the bundle in my arms and my gown of Stormcloak blue left no doubt what I was and what part I was to play. The linen bands on the sleeves and hems of my gown featured the Bear of Eastmarch embroidered quite clearly in silver.

I stilled the tremors in my hands. It's one thing to walk into a battle armed and able to fight back. It's another to walk into the hall of one who might well become an enemy in short succession.

He's not impolitic enough to kill me or otherwise see me harmed, not an emissary of Ulfric Stormcloak (who has a temper about as peppery as Balgruuf's, but which has been moderated by long friendship with Galmar). It wouldn't do. Still… he could detain me, I suppose. I have a solution for that, though, something that Balgruuf can't afford to ignore and which will keep any detention short.

I hope.

"Well, Emissary. What's Ulfric want?" Balgruuf asked gruffly, his tone dripping with advance knowledge of what I was here about.

"My lord Ulfric Stormcloak sends his respects," I announced, beginning to unfold the velvet from around the axe, considering Balgruuf from beneath my lashes as I did so. His face flushed as he took a deep breath, then went pale as he watched the gleaming axe emerge from the blue fabric. Once I had it free, I lifted the weapon up like tribute. "He also sends you this."

The tension in the room grew so thick that breathing seemed to grow difficult. I forced my lungs to work, take air in and out and not to let my arms tremble as everyone watched the weapon they supported.

Balgruuf slowly got to his feet, towering for a moment before coming down to where I still knelt.

I lowered my gaze altogether, aware that his housecarl had changed her station, moving closer to me in case I did something foolish.

She shouldn't have worried about _me_. Balgruuf took the axe, which was fortunate, as my arms protested holding their uplifted position.

Balgruuf gave a snarl of rage and threw the axe, which landed squarely in a table nearby. I tensed, but forced myself to a stone's immobility. That was more than I expected of him, truth be told.

"Get her," Balgruuf snarled, wresting me to my feet by one arm, "out of my sight. _Now_!"

I let him haul me upright without a sound or sign of protest, despite wanting to wince at the wrenching force he applied to get me to my feet, then to propel me away from him. I staggered into the guards he'd barked at, colliding with them rather gracelessly. I could have caught myself, of course, and spared myself the indignity of flailing around and tripping like a ninny, but it suited my purpose that people perceive me as less capable than I am.

The two of his house guards hustled me away not ungently, and were so kind as to give me a discreet moment or two to get my feet back under me before obeying their lord. I let them, offering no resistance. If Balgruuf didn't turn around and use that axe on me—and send my head back wrapped in the blue velvet—then he probably wouldn't have me executed… or incarcerated very long. I'll admit, I did worry about that for a few seconds.

The guards removed my weapons, as politely and decorously as possible, then put me in a cell, locked the door, and went about their business.

I settled on the cot, as though it was a bench in a reception room, prepared to wait as long as necessary. He'll have to send me back, one way or another, in answer to Ulfric's message. If there's one thing I've learned since leaving Whiterun, it's _patience_.

-L-

My stint in the cell lasted only for the afternoon. Balgruuf's temper calmed somewhat and he apparently decided keeping an emissary in a prison cell might be unseemly. Especially such a polite, non-militant young lady of apparent good breeding and some stature. I suspect the guards carried word of my impeccable, irreproachable behavior and patience with my 'lodgings.'

So he had his house guard move me to a spare room—the kind that rarely ever sees use—which served just as well as the cell and had two guards outside of it. It was suited well enough to a guest or a prisoner, and I had nothing about it to complain of. My things were brought from the Bannered Mare where I'd left them before conferring briefly with my Whiterun contacts.

I couldn't complain too much about my treatment upon my return to Windhelm.

The door opened, one of the house guards bringing with him a tray loaded with lunch. "Here you go, Miss," he offered pleasantly.

"Thank you." I watched him set the tray on a small table, then withdraw. Really, he came across as a polite young man. Once he was gone, I poured myself a generous measure of wine, which I slowly sipped.

But I didn't touch the food.

When the guard came back some time later for the tray, he frowned at it.

"Please thank His Lordship for his hospitality, but I refuse to be kept like a canary in a cage. You may tell His Lordship that, whilst I remain a prisoner, no food of any kind shall pass my lips."

"Oh, now," the lad smiled, "surely that's not necessary."

"Would you counsel your own sister, thus?"

"I would," he answered promptly, setting the tray back down. "His Lordship's not going to harm you."

"And yet, here I sit, deprived of my liberty and prevented from accomplishing my duties. How could any loyal subject eat with the weight of that loss and that opposition on her mind? Please, take that away," I indicated the tray. "And don't trouble yourself about such things further."

I got the distinct impression he was humoring me as he took the tray away.

He didn't look as amused when he took the dinner brought to me that evening away, also untouched.

By breakfast, I really was starving, but I held to my resolve.

Irileth arrived shortly after the breakfast was taken away, untouched except for the milk, which I'd gladly drunk. "Your guard says you're not eating," she declared flatly, eyes accusing.

"Did he also give you my reasons?" I asked, looking away from the window, in the seat of which I sat.

"He did." Her mouth thinned, telling me she understood as well as Balgruuf would: if I were to die of starvation, it would be my own fault. But the fact would remain that I was dead under Balgruuf's roof. It would give any attack Ulfric chose to make more legitimacy. "You'll be released tomorrow morning."

"Ah, that's good news indeed."

"And there will be no more of this nonsense?" she asked sternly.

I laughed humorlessly. "It's hardly nonsense, from where I sit, being rather uncomfortable. But no. I took my resolve, and I shall keep to it."

Irileth grimaced, then swung out of the room. On the other side of the closed door, I could hear her giving instructions to the guards.

I got up, poured myself a glass of water from the carafe I'd retained from breakfast, and drank it slowly.

That evening, the guard didn't bring a supper tray, but entered the room, looking nervous.

I lay fully dressed on my bed, dozing lightly to fill the hours of waiting. I didn't get up when the man came in, merely opened my eyes. "Yes?"

"Miss. The Jarl invites you to dine with the household, in recognition of your status as Jarl Ulfric's emissary."

Clever. It's a little bit of liberty, and the excuses of 'for your own protection' or 'for the security of the State' are easily applied with regards to my detention. It told me Balgruuf was starting to worry: if I faint and am killed on my way back, he'll be blamed, right, wrong, or indifferent.

"Please thank His Lordship for his consideration. But I've taken my resolve, and he has heard it." Closing my eyes, I settled back, ignoring the way the man shuffled where he stood.

"…please, Miss," he tried again, tone less formal. "His Lordship does concern himself about your welfare."

"Then he knows he needs must only return my liberty, and I will be out of his hair before the sun rises."

The lad sighed, as if sorry I was making him give this answer, then withdrew.

It shows they aren't used to this kind of protest.

I wonder what Svana made for dinner.

On second thought, no I don't. Wishful thinking, and it makes the hunger pangs _much_ more uncomfortable.

I was just on the verge of falling asleep when a stern knock sounded at the door. "Enter." I sat up as Jarl Balgruuf entered the room, the axe in its wrappings under one arm, eying me sternly… but not without a modicum of respect. He studied me with flinty eyes, as if wondering about who and what I was, apart from Ulfric's messenger. It was clear he didn't recognize me as the same woman who delivered news of a dragon savaging Helgen.

"I'm asking you to join me at table," he declared flatly. "Your liberty was to be returned in the morning. However, you put me in an awkward position. At the conclusion of the meal, if you insist on traveling in the dark, rather than waiting for daylight like a sensible woman, you may go where you will." He deposited the axe on the nearest surface, his next words laced with the deepest bitterness. "You may take _that_ to your master. I scarcely need to tell him what he can do with it."

It was, of course, unthinkable that I fail to accept his word under his own roof. "If I am indeed no longer your prisoner, and am indeed your guest, I would be happy to oblige you, my lord," I declared pleasantly, with a polite curtsey.

His declaration that I was to be set free tomorrow morning was significant in that it takes a full day and part of a second—or just one if the courier is in a hurry and if he's well mounted rather than afoot—to get to Solitude. It takes about the same time to get back. If he had a man setting a speed record, the third day represents a round trip to Solitude… or the anticipation of completion of the trip.

This confirmed my suppositions: he hadn't declared for Ulfric, so he'd sent an emergency envoy to General Tullius—hence my detention. He wanted to give himself as much time as he could before Ulfric could start moving against him. It's a good thing all this was considered and prepared for. I feel a bit bad for the horses I'm about to override, but it's necessary.

Balgruuf looked uneasy at this sudden reversal of tone and stance. Maybe he was used to dealing with hot-tempered soldiers. Maybe it was the complete serenity with which I answered all things—it's enough to make a man nervous, the mix of submissive politeness and unmoving resolution. It smacks of the highborn Imperial woman. A real Imperial nobleborn would spot me immediately as a fake, but Nord nobility has different traditions, different values their aristocracy (such as it is) adheres to.

"Very well." He gestured to me to precede him, which I did.

I think he was half-hoping I might eat too fast or too much after my recent self-deprivation and make myself sick, thereby delaying my departure. However, I knew what I was doing when I started, so while it was tempting to gobble everything in sight, I knew better than to give way to instinct. So I nibbled, ignoring the morose cloud seeming to hang over the dining room. At the end of the meal, the soldier who had brought my meals was dispatched to help me carry my things down to the stables.

Not only did the lad fasten my saddlebags for me, but he also gave me a leg up to get onto my horse. He didn't say anything, but I suspected he'd been counseled not to chat me up if he could help it.

"Thank you for all your assistance," I smiled amiably from my horse's back before kicking him to a canter.

Along the road to Windhelm are four relays consisting of Mjoll and Ralof's unit, each with fresh horses for Mjoll and me, that we might set a speed record to Windhelm. Part of me wished I could have let Mjoll take the axe back to Ulfric, but I understand the need of time in which to move the siege equipment—either to Whiterun or to Falkreath, depending on Balgruuf's answer.

-L-

I hurried into the Palace of the Kings, with Mjoll in tow, sweaty and tired, the axe tucked under my arm. Ulfric was on his throne, apparently in the middle of some kind of adjudication, but he held up his hand to pause proceedings as he got to his feet, attention on me.

From where I stood, I slipped the axe from its wrappings and held it aloft before bowing politely and heading directly for his strategy room to await his attention. Once within, I paced, knowing that if I didn't exercise a little I'd be stiff as a board the next day. Within moments, a servant appeared—probably at Jorleif's intimation—carrying bread, cheese, a few apples, water and wine.

We were both grateful for the food, particularly me, since I'd drunk more than I'd eaten over the last few days.

Ulfric arrived by the time we'd finished the water and started on the wine, nibbling cheese and bread together. Mjoll was glad to sprawl comfortably in one of the chairs, even as I paced agitatedly (dropping crumbs all over the floor as I did so).

Galmar and Jorleif strode in behind him.

"Did Balgruuf give you much trouble?"

"You were kind to warn me about his temper," I answered. "He tried to detain me, but had less success with that than he might have liked. I believe he's sent messages to Solitude declaring his interest in an alliance with the Legion. If the answer to those messages hadn't arrived when I left, they would have arrived the next day."

Ulfric frowned, glanced at me appraisingly. "Anything else?"

"No, my lord. I was kept out of the loop, and my guards were not talkative."

"And you completed your other business before going to see Balgruuf, I take it?" Ulfric prompted.

"Clan Grey-Mane is wholly for your lordship," I answered. "And they are ready to stand by you when opportunity presents itself. I'll make final arrangements when I return. Vignar is quite eager for Whiterun to fall into Stormcloak hands."

"And into _his_ hands, no doubt," Ulfric answered cynically.

"I did convey to him that was your lordship's intention," I answered demurely. "But I think he would be just as dedicated to your cause even without such a reward for service in sight." Then, after a pause, "I rather like the idea of Vignar in a leadership position. The scars of the Great War go deep."

"The Grey-Manes are good stock," Ulfric agreed. "And I believe you hold units captained by two of them."

He couldn't possibly forget it. "And they are both in Whiterun Hold now, preparing to harass the Legion if the Legion tries to move war equipment into the Hold. They know the lands and have family within the city. I couldn't ask for better operatives for this sort of interim." They won't be able to _stop_ any such convoy, but they can make it costly and difficult.

Ulfric nodded. His attempts at guerilla warfare had been laudable… but not so very successful. He's too comparatively open and honest. He's not fond of knives to the back or poison in a cup.

That's why he has me.

"However, I again point out that Balgruuf—and his household—must be treated gently. The Dragonborn will take it amiss if he's treated roughly."

Ulfric's mouth twisted and Galmar snorted so violently that I grimaced—he's going to dislodge something disgusting if he keeps that up. As far as they go, they're not fond of the Dragonborn but that's just sour grapes. Her disappearance after the Dragon Crisis was announced as being 'over' struck many people as odd.

I don't know what's odd about it: did they expect her to set herself up as Queen of Skyrim? When she had the Amulet of Kings (or so it's said)?

No. It looks to me as though she's using our war here to give the Thalmor something other than her to look at. Which is suggestive: are they really looking at us so very closely? And, as I've wondered before, why haven't they stopped this war? They could have done it through my style of means long ago. Yet they let it persist, let it be treated like an internal matter while they gargoyle at the proceedings. They do nothing without reason… and, again, I find myself aware that this is something that requires some attention.

In relation to the Dragonborn, however, I thought her rather wise not to commit to this war before she finished her own. Quite frankly, I think she's more than capable of pulling Ulfric to heel if he annoys her. I don't think that red hair is a lie.

And she's not a woman to be used. However much Ulfric dressed it up, he was looking for a magic baton to legitimize—in the eyes of many—his revolt. Having a folk hero like the Dragonborn—the Last Dragonborn, slayer of Alduin, holder of the shattered Amulet of Kings—on his side would be a boost in his favor.

Or, as is more likely, set up a third faction: those Stormcloaks (and non-affiliated individuals) who recognize the Dragonborn as someone of mythic proportions and, thus, of consequence… and those of the Legion who would accept an Empress of the old blood (even if she's only perceived as being so) rather than the weak dynasty we had and vastly preferring her—bloodline or not—to the empty throne and infighting we have now.

And the Thalmor have not contained, or tried to contain, that chaos either. Suggestive of what I've thought all along: this is merely the breathing space between two wars. We're being played here in Skyrim, where great strength yet lives.

"She should have considered the necessities of war, then," Ulfric said morosely, bringing me out of my reverie.

"My lord, if I may—if she hears that Balgruuf has been mishandled, she will drop whatever it is she's doing—"

"And you've no idea what _that_ is," Galmar growled.

I shot him a venomous look. "—and come back to Skyrim where she will Shout you to the ground and put her sword through your chest. She's the type to appreciate irony. As for your remark, Sir Galmar, I've already commented on what I believe she's doing and there has been no evidence to suggest I'm wrong."

"Nor that you're right," the old bear answered.

"If I was wrong, she'd be here in Skyrim where she's sure of a myriad of supporters," I answered scathingly. "They _adore_ her in Markarth, many Stormcloaks would happily serve a hero as of old, and many of the Legion would accept her possession to the Amulet of Kings as an assurance of her bloodline. Oblivion's teeth," my irritation petered into amusement, "she could probably take Markarth and set up her own little kingdom, if she so chose." Shaking my head sharply to dispel the image, I continued, "Aside from which, I think as a woman I would understand another woman's mind a little better than you do."

"Enough, both of you," Ulfric said quellingly. "The Dragonborn isn't here... but I take your point."

"I will add to my units' orders, that they are to pick off the Legion's officers as possible, and as many of them as possible. The Legion needs its leadership to feel confident and while forcing them to commit more men than originally intended does give them an advantage within the city, it won't matter in the end."

"Our own war materiel is moving. You might have passed it on the road," Ulfric observed.

"I did. That's why I'll be in the city only long enough to equip myself. Then I will go to Whiterun and wait for the siege to begin. Then… we'll see if I'm right in my suppositions." I squared my shoulders; not showing my nerves, now that the countdown to proving my effectiveness as a strategist was in progress, took effort.


End file.
